


to be a blight

by anxiety_and_all_its_subsequent_failings



Category: The Owl House (Cartoon)
Genre: Alador Blight's B- Parenting, Alador is a Bastard Man, Alador is a dumb pining bastard, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amity Blight is a Mess, Amity will receive the other three, Angst and Feels, Buckle up Kiddies we're going on an ADVENTURE, But he loves Lilith A LOT OKAY?!, Eda has two, Eda is a little shit, F/F, F/M, Gen, Idiots in Love, Lilith is a dumb pining bitch, Look he tries but don't expect anything spectacular from this garbage dump, Lumity isn't the focus but goddamn I needed something to make this thing happy, Luz Noceda is a Smol Disaster, Odalia is an Actual Nightmare Person, There are five brain cells in this whole thing, Villain Idiots in Love, i don't make the rules, no beta we die like Alador's independence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:26:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 49,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27853330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anxiety_and_all_its_subsequent_failings/pseuds/anxiety_and_all_its_subsequent_failings
Summary: "alador gaumond becomes alador blight on the eve of his eighteenth birthday.he kisses his bride, and her lips are cold, and they taste like poison.he smiles for his mother, for his father, for his lord.he does his duty, and he does not regret.remember this."(Or, alternatively, the life of Alador, a boy who laughs too loudly and a teenager who loves with his whole soul and a man who is too much of a coward to do anything about it.He changes things.)
Relationships: Alador Blight & Amity Blight, Alador Blight & Eda Clawthorne, Alador Blight & Edric Blight & Emira Blight, Alador Blight/Lilith Clawthorne, Alador Blight/Odalia Blight, Amity Blight & Lilith Clawthorne, Amity Blight/Luz Noceda, Lilith Clawthorne & Luz Noceda
Comments: 146
Kudos: 148





	1. blight

**_blight_ : ** _noun – something that impairs or destroys: a deteriorated condition_

~*O*~

alador is six when he meets the love of his life.

of course, he doesn’t know this at the time.

remember that for later.

~*O*~

he is freedom, and he is strength, and he lives for the rush of blood through his ears and the thrum of magick through his feet. he is alador the great. alador the valiant. alador the strong. his mother will scold him later for the stains on his fine trousers – they are new, a bright violet like the abominations father creates in his study – but, for now, it does not matter.

he is alador the brave.

he is a wolf, a beast that cannot be tamed, and he will howl to the skies, and the isles will tremble before him.

he runs until he is covered in sweat and dirt, growling at imaginary foes as the earth moves beneath his feet. he swings his mighty sword – it’s a branch from an oak tree but it feels as steel in his tiny hands – and the enemy falls before him. he whoops and hollers. and for a moment, one beautiful shining moment, he is free.

no decorum. no titles. no manners.

no name.

he is alador the brave, the valiant, the great.

he sprints around another mighty tree, releasing a war cry as he goes. . .

and is faced with a pair of the biggest, bluest eyes he has ever seen, surrounded by large, round-framed glasses.

alador the great falls with a shout. his mouth is filled with dirt. there’s something wet on his palms, on his chin. he thinks he’s bitten his lip.

a little voice rings like a bell above him. “oh! are you alright?! i didn’t mean to scare you! or run into you!”

alador scowls. he is a beast, a brave man of the wood. he fears nothing, startles at less. he sits up and wipes his chin and tries not to think of his punishment when mother sees the state of his new clothes. he is to be a lord one day, she tells him. he should conduct himself as such.

except alador doesn’t want to be a lord.

he wishes to be a wolf, wild and howling, and he wishes to run with the winds.

“i wasn’t scared!” alador growls. “nothing scares me. you got in my _way_.”

he is unafraid, unabashed, uncaring. he is upset more by the thought of losing his status as great ruler of the wilds than the state of his clothes. he doesn’t care for the blood dripping off his chin or the pebbles biting into his palms. none of that matters.

then alador looks up.

and he sees blue like the sky, blue like the ocean, blue like the gemstones mother wears around her throat. he sees a little girl, just taller than him, biting her lip and playing with her hair, and the light makes the curls look like fire. she looks sad. he didn’t mean that. a ruler of the wilds should be kind to all those between the trees, he thinks. father says kindness is weakness, but grandfather says father is a fool, that kindness should be provided to all. alador rather likes grandfather better, but he never says so.

“i’m sorry,” the girl whispers. “i didn’t mean to upset you, either.”

alador swallows. she looks like she’s going to cry. he doesn’t like it when girls cry. it’s weird. he pushes up off the ground and wipes the blood from his chin. “i’m alright. why did you get in my way?”

the girl looks at him with her big eyes and plays with her hair. “i’m looking for my little sister. her name is edalyn. she ran off while we were playing, and i have to find her before we go home. have you seen her?”

he hasn’t. alador knows all the subjects of his kingdom, every branch and creature and stone. he knows the way the trees breath and the earth rumbles. he hasn’t seen another little girl. but he’s alador the valiant. alador the great.

and great men help others, grandfather says.

“i haven’t seen her. but i can help you look?” he wipes his palm on his pants and holds it out for her to shake. “i’m alador, alador gaumond.”

the girl takes his hand and shakes it. firm, but delicate. she has good manners – grandfather would be very pleased. “lilith, lilith clawthorne.”

she smiles at him, but it is shy, and she adjusts those big glasses. her eyes are very blue behind them. alador smiles back, the big one that shows his teeth and dimples. the one mother says makes him look like a vagabond.

he rather likes the idea of being a rogue, a wild ruler. he grins wider.

“shall we find your sister, m’lady?” and he bows, the way father taught him, properly deep at the waist and straight in the back, knees and heels together.

lilith giggles and curtsies. it’s a little too shallow. her knees wobble, feet spread too wide. but that’s alright. he is alador the great, and she is lilith the wanderer, and here in the trees, manners mean nothing. he rushes forward and takes her hand, and they run whooping through the trees. until there is blood rushing through their ears and magick thrumming in their feet. they call for edalyn, call for the little girl he has not met but knows is important. after all, she is a member of the wild wood now, and alador the valiant protects all his subjects.

they run and call and as the sun starts setting, they find another girl. it is edalyn. she sits crying at the base of a tree, arms wrapped around her knobby knees. she is missing a tooth, hair a tangled mass of orange and gold atop her head. it’s rather different than lilith’s. not curly, or dark red like a phoenix wing. and her eyes are different, too, big and gold and watery from crying so hard. alador smiles at her anyway. she’s only little, and she’s been scared.

lilith wraps her sister in a great hug and kisses her head. alador wipes his sweaty palms on his torn trousers. edalyn cries loudly, great heaving sobs that echo through the wild wood. she had gotten lost and looked just _everywhere_ but she couldn’t find lilith, and then she had fallen and skinned her knees, and she _was_ gonna tell mama, lily, just wait!

alador wrinkles his nose and scratches at the scabs on his palms. they sting. but he isn’t crying. then again, edalyn is just little. little children cry so easily. it’s a good thing he’s never been little. not ever in his whole life.

“you’re going to be alright, edalyn!” he proclaims. “this is the wild wood – alador the great will always protect you in the wild wood!”

edalyn looks at him with her big molten eyes, and the tears keep rolling. “who’s alador the great?”

“i am,” he says, serious and straight-backed. “and you and your sister will always be safe here. i promise.”

he nods once and tucks the promise close to his heart. gentlemen keep their promises, grandmama says – it is why she loves grandfather so.

edalyn sniffles, small and angry. “that’s stupid. you’re just little like we are.”

alador frowns, then looks back to lilith, because this tiny angry child is nothing like her sister, he thinks.

lilith smiles back at him and his chest goes warm. edalyn just looks skeptical until lilith leans in to kiss her forehead.

“with this spell declared, let the pain be shared,” she says, and then they both glow bright.

now lilith has a skinned knee. she winces, then smiles, and edalyn starts to giggle. lilith’s magick is blue, like her eyes, and alador watches with mouth open wide.

“woah! where’d you learn that!” he exclaims, running to sit by them under the tree.

lilith turns red again because girls are strange, and she fiddles with a phoenix-red curl. “grandma is in the bard coven. she taught us the spell. it doesn’t heal it, but if edalyn’s hurt, then i hurt too. i’m her big sister – that’s how it works.”

alador is alone. he has no brothers or sisters. mother and father do not have more children because mother and father do not want more children, for alador is noisy and rambunctious and difficult. it strains them. sometimes, it is lonely. sometimes, he has grandmama and grandfather to play with. mostly, he has the wild wood.

he thinks it must be nice, having another who loves you _so much_ they share your hurt.

“then you are lilith the just,” he says, “for i can think of nothing fairer than a lady who would share pain with her sister.”

and lilith turns the color of a ripe apple, but she smiles at him anyway, so alador thinks he’s said something right. edalyn gasps, her tears gone, and puts her sticky, chubby hands on his face.

“what am i??!!” she exclaims. “what am i??”

alador blinks. but then he laughs because she’s a funny little girl, edalyn, sad then mad then excited in the time it takes to breathe. “you are edalyn the bold. who else would be so brave as to search the wild wood alone?”

edalyn gasps and her face lights up like a solstice hearth. “ya hear that, lily!? i’m _bold_!”

her laugh is like bells, and lilith helps them both up again. “uh-huh! the boldest!”

they run through the trees and laugh and whoop and fight foes with staves until the sun begins to set. until they are sore and tired and sweaty. then lilith holds fast to edalyn’s hand – eda, she insists, edalyn sounds _dumb_ – and smiles at him behind her big round glasses.

“it was very nice meeting you, alador,” she says. “can we play again soon?”

his clothes are filthy. he is dirty and bloody and sweating like common demon. mother will have a fit. father will look down his nose. they will both say he brings shame to their family, to their names. the thought is an ache in his chest, in his heart. he will probably not be allowed outside for a very long time.

but alador grins, the one that shows all his teeth, and says, “meet me under the oak tomorrow at midday! i’ll show you the best places to see the flutter-faeries! okay?”

lilith nods, says goodbye quietly. edalyn yawns great big without covering her mouth and then waves with a shout of “bye, al!” they run away without looking back.

alador walks home. takes his time. trails his fingers along the trees. tries to listen to the wind in the branches and the magick in his feet. tries to pretend he is brave and valiant and strong.

he crosses the gates into his back garden. mother is waiting at the doorstep. her eyes are cold and her hands are colder on his chin. “there are to be consequences for this, young man.”

alador the great is no more.

~*O*~

alador is ten years old.

he has a future wife.

remember this.

~*O*~

alador stands straight and tall as his short frame will allow. heels pressed together. he bows at the waist with one arm pressed to his middle. his shoulders are back. his face is composed. he isn’t afraid. he _isn’t_.

before him stands leonidas blight. taller, broader, colder than he could ever hope to be. father has said that master blight is a powerful sorcerer, a powerful member of the community, head of the abominations coven. his eyes are amber, those of a predator. Ruthless, calculating, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

alador is not great in this room, with its cold walls and its colder inhabitants.

he wishes to be in the forest, running with magick in his feet and wind in his hair and a delicate hand clutching his own. he wishes to hear edalyn snorting, her inane jokes, her boisterous ideas and war-cries echoing between the trees. he wishes to listen to lilith’s laughter, bright and ringing like silver bells, and rule his kingdom with his queen and the wild knight by their side. he wishes for freedom.

there is no freedom here.

alador does not smile. he does not move. he stares ahead and allows himself to be chained in place.

“he’s handsome enough, i suppose, eddard.” his voice is light and cold, a frost that sinks into his bones – alador refuses to shiver. “what is his academic record?”

“impeccable, lord blight,” father answers, prompt and composed. “he’s a fine, strong lad. the instructors at hexside give him high praise.”

the praise warms him from the inside.

alador has been raised to be the strongest. the brightest. the best there ever was. it is a standard he will not fail.

it is a standard he _cannot_ fail.

“show me an abomination, boy,” lord blight orders.

the magick tingles in his fingers as alador draws the circle. it is smooth, precise, and this makes up for the fact that it is small, he thinks. he’s proud of the fact his voice doesn’t shake on the order to rise. not even when his stomach knots and his palms sweat. he wants to be anywhere else.

he wants to be in his forest.

instead, he watches as a violet abomination rises from the abyss. it is small, only about three feet tall, but perfectly formed. it groans.

“abomination, bow.”

and it executes a perfect bow towards lord blight. alador straightens and smiles, proud of his achievement. then lord blight hums, eyes sharp and still cold, and his pride turns sour. the smile falls. he returns to perfect posture. shoulders back, face neutral, spine straight and true. father smirks, nods in approval.

approval is good.

approval means he is perfect. it means he is everything his parents expect of him. it means he cannot be lonely, basking in the light of their warmth and approval, and that he cannot fall deeper into the shadow of failure.

failure is cold, and it is dark, and alador thinks that failure is quite possibly the scariest outcome of all.

“you seem to have done well with him,” lord blight murmurs. “i think this will work well, lord gaumond.”

father _smiles_ , though alador is unaware as to what makes him do so. but the light in his chest doesn’t fade, and alador inclines his head in difference to the praise. the study is dark and lavish and smells of abomination clay. large, stained-glass windows bleed light over them. a door to his left opens, and in walks lady blight, followed by a girl he has seen in passing. 

lady blight is beautiful, alador thinks. not in the way mother is. mother is dark hair and darker eyes, a smile that melts like chocolate. she is hugs that don’t quite warm him through and those rare occasions when a hand runs through his hair with affection. it is a comfortable kind of beautiful. a familiarity. one that he has lived with his entire life.

lady blight is. . . beautiful like snow on trees. cold, ice, a sparkling sun that glitters through bare, dead branches. her hair is emerald, and her skin is pale, and her eyes are more amber than gold, glittering like the topaz gemstones strung around her throat. there’s something scary about lady blight. something that makes his stomach drop and his palms sweat. he feels trapped. caged.

the look the girl shoots him, all judgment and disgust, makes everything worse.

she’s pretty enough, he thinks? in a kind of arrogant, too-perfect kind of way. she looks a lot like her mother, but her hair is a lighter shade of green, almost. . . mossy? her eyes, though.

the girl has lord blight’s eyes.

alador wants to go home. he wants to go home and strip off his shoes and go sprinting through his forest, through his kingdom. he wants to have adventures with eda the bold and hunt flutter faeries with lilith the just. bold, just, great – all things he does not feel in this place, surrounded by people who do not understand him. do not _know_ him.

he is perfect, father says.

in his heart, alador knows he is perfect until he is not.

“alador,” lord blight begins, “allow me to introduce my daughter, odalia blight. odalia, this is alador. he is to be your betrothed when you are of age.”

betrothed.

the word sits like a stone in alador’s chest. especially when he looks at the girl across from him – odalia, he must remember – with her turned-up nose and fine silk clothes. she looks him up and down, inspects him like a new toy, and alador fights the urge to squirm. her eyes are cold. but more than that?

her eyes are _mean_.

not in the way that edalyn’s eyes can be mean, either. edalyn and lilith are his best friends. they play for hours together. just, bold, and great, masters of the wild wood with naught but themselves for governance. that brings challenges sometimes. like when edalyn loses her temper and shouts vicious threats at alador, lightning blasting between her fingers and hot anger flashing in her eyes. or when lilith hisses back, eyes cold like a winter lake and hands trembling behind her back.

alador is the king of his forest, though. he plays peacemaker. he’s good at that. grandfather had said he was a natural diplomat before he passed, said a true gaumond keeps a level head on their shoulders in the face of conflict.

now grandfather says nothing, cold and rotting beneath the ground.

grandmama cries a lot these days.

but this is lord blight’s home, with dark-wood rooms and stained-glass windows that bleed onto the floor. alador is not king here. alador is next to nothing. a parlor trick, really. an amusement. a game piece for father to move as is customary for their station.

so alador smiles his most charming smile and bows once more for the audience. “it is an honor, my lady odalia.”

the words taste sour.

odalia smiles – it’s mean like her eyes.

“oh,” she says, and no one as small as them should sound so scary. “i do believe it is.”

father smiles once more, and there is approval written on his face.

alador tells himself it is enough.

~*O*~

conditional approval is not love.

conditional love is not enough.

conditional love and approval shatters a little boy.

remember this – it is important.

~*O*~

alador is thirteen and hexside is his sanctuary.

many think him cold, or strange, or frightening. they do so quietly, in whispers, just on the edge of hearing, just out of reach of the top student with the solemn honey eyes. alador does not care. not in the slightest. there are worse things to be, he thinks, than cold or strange or frightening. he could be low-class. he could be weak of magick. he could be ~~alone~~ disowned by mother or father. he could marry ~~someone he doesn’t love with cold eyes and a cruel smile~~ someone beneath his station.

yes, there are many things worse than being thought strange.

“yo, al!”

. . . dealing with edalyn’s insufferably loud voice is one of them.

taking a deep breath, alador counts to three and releases the air through his nose. he turns away from his locker, abomination textbook in hand, and watches as edalyn bounces down the hallway. the grin on her face is bright, too-wide for someone of such a tiny stature. behind her, she is dragging lilith. quiet, shy, studious lilith, who adjusts her glasses and mutters apologies for her baby sister as they bounce through crowds of witches.

despite himself, alador smiles just the slightest bit.

the clawthornes are his friends, his oldest friends. his _best_ friends.

edalyn is boisterous and impulsive, makes an _untitanly_ amount of noise, and she is quite possibly the greatest threat to his perfect record alive, what with her pranks and uncanny habit of foisting the blame off on others. but she is also bright and vivacious and has a heart three times the size of her mouth. an impressive feat, to be sure. she’s also a wealth of terrible puns, which are a secret favorite, and alador sometimes only just manages to maintain his composure long enough to escape and laugh himself sore in the men’s toilets.

and lilith?

lilith is quiet but competitive. studious but athletic. she is awkward and gangly and strong and powerful, and alador enjoys watching her destroy competitors on the grudgby field without qualm, without mercy. she is cunning and sly and easy to fluster all in the same breath, and though there are many who mock her wild curls and over-large glasses, all he can see is the girl who asked for his help finding her baby sister so long ago. he sees the girl who reigns in edalyn and coaxes him from his studies. who bakes sweets when no one pays attention and hums under her breath while she works, who is quick-witted enough to retort with vicious wit but kind enough to soothe the burn seconds after.

edalyn is fire. alador is ice. lilith is the ocean.

the bold. the great. the just.

it’s odd, he thinks, that he enjoys their company far more than his own betrothed.

“alador, what are you doing with _them_?”

. . . or, perhaps, not so odd.

mere moments, a bare second, is all it takes to re-school his features. alador turns to odalia, mindful to remain carefully neutral. her school uniform is perfect, not a speck of dirt or a wrinkle in sight. her makeup is precise as a scalpel. her hair smooth, neat.

her eyes, though, sparkle with fury.

to his left, edalyn screws up her face in offense. lilith blushes prettily ~~prettily? where did that come from?~~ and stares intently at her feet, eyes shining with embarassment. alador fights to maintain his attention on odalia. her illusion track blues are pristine. they mock him. what better track for someone who allows others to see only what they wish?

“edalyn and lilith are childhood friends, odalia,” he answered, voice carefully neutral. “you know this. we speak on occasion.”

there is hurt flashing in lilith’s eyes, true hurt, and it makes alador’s chest ache. he wants to make it stop. but he can’t. not here, not now. here is hexside, where he is top student, where he is in the eye of the public. where he _must_ be perfect, flawless, the best and brightest and strongest there ever was. he cannot be part of the clawthorne circle.

not when odalia is watching.

not when mother and father can _know_ of his failings, of his imperfections.

alador the great is no more, and he no longer feels the titan’s magick pulsing through bare feet. all he feels are large hands on his shoulders, bearing down with the weight of a name. a title.

_lord blight_.

odalia hums, and her eyes gleam. a serpent waiting under stone, coiled beneath fluttering lashes and obsidian-sharp eyeliner.

“of course they are, _darling_ ,” she croons, and it’s obscene how she makes an endearment sound like a curse. “just don’t force me to breathe the same air as them. who knows what sort of disease the _peasants_ carry?”

his jaw tightens, teeth threatening under the pressure, and alador ignores the impulse to snarl. the mask is worn today. thinner than usual. it’s more difficult to put up with odalia. he just doesn’t have the strength.

not that he ever has the strength, really. she’s right about the difference in social standing, though, at the suicidal turn events would take if her father caught wind of his friendship with the clawthorne sisters. he’s just so _tired_.

edalyn’s face contorts into a vicious, ugly snarl.

lilith just looks like she wants to cry.

alador sighs, holds his abomination studies textbook tighter, and agrees wordlessly. he doesn’t miss the triumphant look odalia shoots edalyn’s way, grin so smug and thick a spoon could stand upright in it. he waits until she is gone to step closer. to say anything.

“i apologize. odalia is difficult.”

the snort edalyn makes is undignified and crass but so distinctly _her_ it provokes a smile. “she’s not difficult, al, she’s a _bitch_. i’m gonna knock her teeth out, i swear to titan.”

“please don’t do that. her father will consider it my fault if you do.” alador sighs again, exhausted. “and would it kill you to call me ‘alador’ for once?”

this time, the line of her grin is sharp and savagely happy. “yep! you’re al or aladog – anything else might make me spontaneously combust or somethin’!”

alador turns his attention to lilith. she is quiet, more quiet than usual, and will not look him in the eye. it hurts more than he cares to admit. “lilith? are you alright?”

she nods, bites her lip, and those big blue eyes finally glance up into his own. alador tries not to think how they reflect the sky, the ocean, the sapphires mother so favors. he is betrothed to odalia. he is meant to be with _odalia_. everyone else is lower, lesser, beneath. father has said so, and he is a dutiful son. as such he will obey.

but when lilith manages a smile, gentle like the sun at dawn, that firm conviction crumbles beneath the warmth of it. “i’m alright – i just wish she wouldn’t talk to you like that.”

alador ignores his heart, ignores the warmth that blooms at her words, but manages a small, comforting smile. “that’s just the way of things, i suppose. i’ll be fine. come on – we’re meant to be in class.”

the groan edalyn makes is dramatic. the smile lilith offers is shy. and the look on alador’s face is carefully, meticulously neutral. but the warmth of them pressed close on either side is familiar, and comforting, and safer than the walls of his own home.

later, there will be hell to pay for ignoring odalia in favor of these two girls. low-class, lesser, beneath, unworthy in his family’s eyes.

later, he will face the consequences.

now, he will bask in the warmth of lilith’s smile and listen to the rush of edalyn’s laughter, and he will pretend that everything is right.

~*O*~

alador kisses his wife at seventeen.

alador kisses the love of his life at seventeen.

it is not the same kiss – remember that.

~*O*~

he is seventeen and free.

or so everyone thinks.

hexside is no longer a haven. it is no longer hallowed halls crammed with bustling bodies where he can meld into the throng and become. . . no one. nothing. just another face in the crowd. not that he has ever been another face in the crowd, not truly. not when he wears the top student badge so proudly and walks with his shoulders back, head up, hair perfect, not a wrinkle to mar his uniform.

he is a beacon in the hallways and a phoenix in a cage.

he is free.

and yet he is not.

alador takes a deep breath and closes his locker for the last time. his new abominations coven robes are stiff and starched. pristine, as all things must be. “appearances are to be upheld” is mother’s favorite phrase and uphold them he does with fierce devotion. he is a gaumond by birth. he will be a blight by name. father is proud so long as he is perfect. mother loves him, so long as he does what is necessary.

the best, the brightest, the highest of standings.

except. . .

“alador!”

he does not jump. he _does not_.

the giggle that escapes lilith threatens to out him as a liar. but, honestly, alador doesn’t care. not really.

he turns to face her with a smile. and there she stands. lilith clawthorne, his first and dearest friend. she is tall, and she is bright, and the whites of her new emperor’s coven robes suit her. they make her eyes sparkle. blue and warm like the summer sky. her curls are deep red. a phoenix’s wings, burning bright for the world to see.

she doesn’t burn as bright as she used to.

not after. . . edalyn.

but there are moments, like this one, where her smile is like sunshine again, and alador nestles each one close to his heart as he could.

“you still squeak like a witchling when you’re startled!” lilith giggles.

alador draws himself up with the same lofty dignity father and grandfather possess. the righteous indignation, the bruised pride, the scandalized nature of an aristocrat. the mask is easy to slip on after so many years. but, with her, he allows the barest hint of a smile to clip through.

“i’m sure i don’t know what you’re talking about,” he drawls, perfectly composed. “you caught me unaware.”

lilith’s smile gentles, and she steps closer than is proper. “yes, i did. now, what are we going to do about that?”

alador allows the intrusion, cherishes it. she’s warm and soft and smells like lilac. “i can think of a few things.”

“oh?” she’s a minx, all large eyes and false innocence, and alador must force down a growl. “and what sort of things are you thinking of?”

his true smile is perfectly improper. it is too wide and too sharp, all teeth, and it makes his eyes seem to yellow for his complexion. these are mother’s complaints. grandmama had always called him “little lupin”, had said the moon blessed his blood, made him strong and fierce like the wolves of the wild wood.

being near lilith, watching her smile and hearing her laugh, makes him feel stronger than any wolf.

“i think,” he rumbles, “we should start by taking care of that mouth.”

and he leans forward to kiss her. his smile is wolfish, but alador is always gentle with lilith. _always_. he kisses her soft, sweet, and threads one hand through her magnificent curls to tilt her head towards him. lilith sighs against him, contented for the moment, and alador cherishes the moment. tucks her close and keeps her safe against him for as long as he can.

they are few and far between, dangerous even, and alador cannot stomach the picture of odalia’s wrath should this come to light.

he is a gaumond by birth.

he will be a blight by name.

this will not change – not even if he gives his foolish, flawed heart to someone else.

he breaks away and pushes his forehead against hers. a purr rumbles in his chest, deep and slow, and alador smiles. he is a phoenix in a cage, but lilith? lilith is a griffin, soaring high in the sky, and she is the sun in summer, and she is a smile to light the darkest, deepest recesses of his mind. and she’s. . .

_everything_.

and he is going to _lose_ her.

not now, of course. but soon. his family grows impatient. odalia grows bored. they all wish to solidify the union before summer’s end, to begin a new generation of blights that will rise to new heights of glory. and alador thinks of how odalia kisses him on the lips at events, how she relishes his discomfort and never allows him control, how she croons and purrs and _twists_ until the world sees her illusions as fact.

but those are thoughts for later.

now?

now he stands in a deserted hallway with lilith, the smell of lilacs in the air, and holds her close.

“alador, we shouldn’t do this here,” she murmurs against his lips. “someone might see.”

always so practical, his lilith. she charges into situations like a blind hippogriff but always watches out for him. for edalyn. sometimes, he wishes things could be like they were when he was small. out in the woods, earth beneath his bare feet and wind in his hair, lilith’s hand squeezing his own _so tightly_ it felt as though they’d melt into one another. become one. great and just. king and queen.

but that was then – this is now.

alador sighs, but his smile remains. how could it not? “quite right, my raven. i shall have to make this quick, then.”

gently, he kisses her once more, just the lightest brush of lips. then again. and again. each time the smile on his face widens, and he presses as close as he dares, until it feels as though he could swallow her whole and tuck her close to his heart like the warmth of her smile. lilith giggles against him. her fingers thread through his hair. he’d worked for nearly thirty minutes on it this morning, and it’s been ruined in less than a heartbeat, but he isn’t angry. far from it. he’s _elated_.

it’s another moment of just. . . _being_.

lilith pecks him one final time, soft and sweet, and pulls back enough to tuck her head beneath his chin. “that was nice,” she giggles, “but we still need to leave before someone comes running. or bump catches us.”

he’s in a terribly good mood today, and it’s all because of lilith, so alador leans down to press another kiss to her wild curls.

“yes, titan forbid principal hieronymus bump should find another clawthorne in his establishment for the next three decades at least. edalyn has broken the man’s spirit. he’s but a shell of our esteemed educator. we should be lucky to leave these halls intact.”

they walk into a summer evening pressed close, lilith’s laughter echoing like silver bells. in the back of his mind, alador knows this will not last. he has family, duty, honor, commitment, a million different things pulling him away from the bright, ocean-eyed young woman he loves so dearly. it feels as though he bears the weight of the world on his shoulders, cold dread in his stomach and heartache threatening to overwhelm his composure.

but alador is a gaumond by birth.

gaumonds do not kneel, do not buckle, do not break.

he will shoulder the burden and do what needs done when the time comes.

but, for now, he will be the moon to lilith’s sun, and he will bask in the summer with nothing but her name on his lips.

~*O*~

it is the beginning of summer.

his wedding to odalia is in three months.

lilith refuses to let him go, just as he refuses to let her go.

and alador has made a hammock under their tree in the wood.

a simple thing, just a pair of ropes, some spare cloth that dear nanny smuggled to him, and a bit of creative knot-work. but it’s _theirs_ , a place chosen by them, for them, and _no one_ may take this. not mother, not father, not odalia.

he sinks further into the comfortable sling, wraps his arms tighter about lilith’s slender frame. she reads from a thick tome – courtesy of the emperor’s coven – with a fervor bordering on manic. it has taken a bit of getting used to, seeing his darling without her customary glasses, but alador finds little ways to appreciate the difference. this way, he can watch the way her forehead scrunches in concentration, the way her nose wrinkles upon finding a vexing passage. the way her delicate fingers smooth the ancient, worn pages of the book without having to adjust her spectacles every few minutes.

gently, alador presses a kiss to her temple. she still smells of lilac, just the faintest whiff of whatever potion she’d been brewing earlier clinging to her hair, and it relaxes his nerves.

“you seem anxious,” he murmurs, reluctant to break the peace of their moment. “is there something i can do?”

he is being mentored by lord blight, taken under his wing as an aristocratic intern, and though he is sure there is little comparison in their own duties, he wants to do _something_. alador smooths a thumb over the crease in her brow, and lilith offers him a grateful smile.

“no – this book doesn’t have what i need. gah!” lilith closes the heavy text and drops it gently to the dirt below. “i just don’t understand how a curse like this _doesn’t have a cure!_ there has to be _something_ i can do!”

she twists until they are chest to chest, chin propped on his breastbone, tears shimmering on her cheeks. alador’s heart hurts at the frustration, the guilt, the desperation in her eyes. lilith is quick to temper and quicker to run into sticky situations, and this is one that she cannot seem to wade out of. both clawthorne sisters are well-suited to getting _into_ trouble.

lilith is less adept at getting out than edalyn.

“you’ll figure it out, love,” he reassures, smoothing circles into the small of her back. “you’re a resourceful little raven.”

a smile, small but genuine, curves her lips, and lilith leans forward to kiss him. alador accepts it gratefully. another moment, warm and bright, to be tucked close to his heart. he holds her tight. a breeze comes from over the boiling seas, smelling of salt and summer and sunset. they lay in their hammock and allow time to pass as though they are not watching sand trickle through an hourglass.

as though they have every moment to waste on one another.

her breath grows even and deep against him, and alador lays in place stroking lilith’s hair until she is well asleep. the moon is high above them, glowing soft violet and watching with a kindness the sun does not possess. he thinks to mother and her propriety, to odalia and her predator eyes, and knows neither one would ever surrender the control to do such a thing.

the realization makes him hold her tighter, tuck a lock of hair behind the delicate point of her ear.

alador is silent as he cries.

“i love you,” he whispers. “you deserve to know that. you’ll hear it someday.”

lilith sleeps on undisturbed, and the morning will find her tucked safe in her bed, mrs. clawthorne unaware of her late arrival.

there will be consequences, alador knows, for returning home so late without giving mother and father due notice.

but, for now, he will hold lilith close and take comfort in the feel of her heart close to his.

~*O*~

it is mid-summer and lilith wants him to teach her to dance.

her hair is dark indigo and pin-straight, piled high in a unicorn-tail, a change wrought by the jeers of her fellow recruits, and alador keeps a special kind of hate reserved for those who would change her. nonetheless, she is beautiful. the most beautiful thing he should ever hope to see in her dark trousers and blue blouse, arms lily-white in the filtered light around them.

alador stands bare-chested in the clearing, trousers slung low and shoes scuffed from branches he’s kicked. they snatch moments, periods away from covens and weddings and heiresses with predator eyes. today, however, they have managed to snatch an entire day to themselves. no emperor’s coven. no curse. no wedding or odalia or mother or father.

it’s just her and him.

“a waltz is the simplest of the dances you will encounter,” he lectures. “typically, it is the only one you will be required to perform, particularly if you’re only attending emperor’s coven events. however, more formal events might require you to learn different forms.”

lilith hums, eyes tracing the line of his shoulders, and alador must fight down the urge to preen under her silent appreciation. “alright – show me the waltz, please.”

alador nods, a quick spell-circle activating the worn record-player resting on a large rock a few meters away. he steps into lilith’s personal space, gently taking her right hand in his own. his left hand feels massive and uncouth against the delicate curve of her waist, and her own hand dainty against his shoulder.

he ignores the sensation, focuses on the gentle heat permeating the slight space between them, and makes a slight adjustment to her posture before beginning to go through the steps. the one-two-three of a waltz is a simple, elegant thing. it’s the one pleasant experience he remembers from his years of ballroom dancing and etiquette lessons.

now, he thinks, watching lilith as she focuses on his movements and his even, measured counting of the beat, those lessons were a gift. alador is impressed that she has not looked down at their feet once. then again, she has always been an athlete, if not exceptionally graceful. they do a slow, measured box, toes scraping the earth beneath them. it takes her a moment to understand the steps, to replicate them. she steps on his toes a couple of times, apologizes with a delicate blush.

but then?

then it all _clicks_ , and they’re _dancing_.

lilith is delicate and strong against him, and they circle the clearing in a waltz that rises and swells with the composition he chose. it is quick and it is smooth, and as she grows more comfortable, lilith begins smiling up at him. that bright, open smile that makes her eyes sparkle and his heart race. the one she reserves just for them. she’s beautiful, and though she’s in her ratty trousers and blouse, she may as well be clad in the finest silks to alador’s eyes.

alador grins in return and leads her through a twirl that makes lilith giggle, bubbling up like champagne. they dance until the music changes, and he teaches her the foxtrot, the kneetian waltz, the salsa. he wishes he could teach her how to tango, but there aren’t enough hours in the day.

they dance until their feet hurt.

they dance until it has devolved into them pressed tight, chest to chest, with her head tucked beneath his chin. her eyes are closed. she trusts him to lead her.

she _trusts him_ , and that is a gift of which he is fully undeserving.

the sun is setting. alador whispers as much, hand possessive on the small of her back. lilith merely hums, and the lilac of her perfume wafts over him like a drug.

“let’s just stay here for a moment,” she murmurs. “please?”

he’s powerless against her, against the soft pleading in her voice. alador continues leading them in slow circles, wishing with all his might he could just absorb her into him.

they sway in place until it is dark, and alador is forced to place light spells across the clearing. they both are sweaty and exhausted, and his feet ache terribly, but he’s loathe to leave. they are comfortable here. quiet and still and together. and he knows it’s selfish, but he wishes that he had the strength to run away with her. to be free.

he is a gaumond, soon to be a blight.

he has a duty to his name. to associate with only the elite, the grand, those with power in name if not in magick.

and lilith is none of those things, no matter how hard he wishes.

so alador nuzzles the top of her head until she looks at him, those big blue eyes sparkling like the sea, and he leans down to kiss her with everything he has. it makes his heart ache, his soul sing, and the little sound she makes against his lips is better than any music.

he kisses her until they’re both dizzy. he kisses her until they hear beasts begin to roam the wood, until they are forced to separate and run, hand in hand, to the edge of the trees like they are children once more.

they kiss once more before they separate – lilith to return to the emperor’s castle; he to return to his family’s estate.

before they part, lilith whispers “i love you” against his lips, gentle as the breeze, and then she is gone.

alador weeps once he is alone.

~*O*~

the sunrise is beautiful, but not more beautiful than lilith.

and still alador’s heart aches.

mornings in this portion of the isles are cool, even in the fading summer. he’s bundled them up in a thick blanket, one of his grandmama’s favorites, to watch as the first rays of light break over the boiling sea. lilith is nestled close to his side. she still smells of lilac. the indigo color of her hair is still jarring if he is caught by surprise. normally, she would be talking to him, idle talk about sunrises or her work or where she suspects edalyn has fled to.

this morning, however, she is quiet. contemplative.

this is the beginning of the end.

alador can feel it in his bones. in his _soul_.

he thinks to all the moments they have shared, those brief, delicate occasions that shine like stars in the spaces between his ribs, and the quirks he’s learned by watching her.

he thinks of the way lilith devolves into snorts and wheezes when laughing too hard. the way that they dance together. the way she trails off in the middle of a sentence when attempting to multitask. the way she throws herself into her assignments, the way she devotes every inch of her being to taking care of those she loves, the way she forgets to eat and to sleep, and how he has found her passed out amidst piles of scrolls in her meagre quarters at the emperor’s castle. the way her lips always taste of sugar from her tea after a good morning kiss. the way her head nestles perfectly on his shoulder. the way her fingers slot so well between his own.

he thinks of all the kisses and the dances and the laughter, all moments frozen in time. 

moments he will cherish to his dying breath.

because this is all they will ever have, he fears. . . .

moments.

“your wedding is in one week.”

lilith is not one to tiptoe around a drake in the room. typically, he appreciates that.

today, alador curses it.

he inhales, then exhales, and forces himself to remain composed. he won’t ruin this. not this last morning with her.

“it is.”

lilith nestles in closer, fingers squeezing his _so tightly_. they both fear letting go. but alador fears holding on, getting caught, even more. he can picture mother’s sneer and father’s disappointment and the overwhelming _fury_ in odalia’s predator eyes and. . . no. he can’t do that to lilith.

he _won’t_ do that to lilith.

he is a gaumond, soon to be a blight.

he is the best of the best. the top elite. the most intelligent, the most powerful. he will not falter, not now. these plans have been laid in stone from the moment he stepped foot into lord blight’s study on his tenth birthday, and he hasn’t the strength to rend the mortar.

“it isn’t fair,” lilith sniffs – he can hear the tears in her voice. “none of this is fair.”

“it isn’t,” he agrees. “but that’s life.”

lilith draws in a shuddering breath, and he can feel her tears run hot in the crook of his neck. “you could run with me. i’m in the emperor’s coven, alador. i’ll be the head if i work hard enough. just. . .” she lifts her head and looks at him, cheeks shimmering with tears. “don’t give up on us. _please_.”

lilith clawthorne is like the sea, he thinks. she is gentle and welcoming one moment, raging and filled with raw power the next. she is crashing waves and salty air and the beauty of a monsoon. she makes him furious with her bullheaded methodology, the way she disregards her health for the benefit of others. and she makes him fall in love with her all over again when she sings to herself, when she brushes her hands through his hair and straightens his cloak with that _smile_. her words can be venom but her laughter is the antidote.

and alador _loves her_. but he isn’t strong enough to be what she needs, to do what she so desperately begs of him. so he does the cruelest thing he can think of.

gently, he tilts her head to him, wipes away her tears, and smiles sadly. “i love you, my little raven. i _do_. but this isn’t meant to be.”

her beautiful face crumples, and lilith shoves away from him to stand, sobbing in earnest. alador feels like the worst sort of person. she shouldn’t cry. no one should ever make her cry, least of all _him_ , but here they are.

it is the most beautiful sunrise he has seen this summer, and he has ruined it.

“don’t you _dare_ tell me what isn’t meant to be, alador gaumond!” lilith snarls, choking on tears. “don’t you _dare_!”

alador swallows. he stands. she looks so small next to him, but she is bigger and brighter than any star he has ever known. her eyes are bright, sapphire blue and red-rimmed with tears. she looks angry. but, more accurately, she looks heartbroken. a breeze runs down his spine, a cold finger made of bones.

gently, he unwinds the blanket from his shoulders and places it around her. alador cups her face in his hand, attempts to memorize every feature, every detail. she leans into the touch with a hiccup. his eyes burn but he doesn’t cry.

he can’t.

his tears have been spent.

alador leans down and kisses her one final time.

lilith tastes like salt, and he can feel her teeth as she lets out a sob against his lips. he pulls away just far enough to breathe her air, forehead tilted against hers. he has prayed to the titan for the summer to last forever. but it was not meant to be, and so here they are, decaying in half time.

“i love you, lilith clawthorne,” he rasps. “remember that.”

he presses another kiss to her forehead, secures the blanket around her shoulder, and moves to leave.

lilith stays rooted in place behind him. crying. angry. she shakes beneath the heavy quilt. the burning sensation of her magick washes over him, a maelstrom of fire and fury. he accepts the burn and does not turn back. 

as he leaves, she calls out, “you’re a coward, alador. you’re a coward, and i _hate you_!”

his heart aches.

he feels bruised.

but he says nothing else and walks away in silence.

he still loves her – that’s nothing more than what he deserves, isn’t it?

~*O*~

alador gaumond becomes alador blight on the eve of his eighteenth birthday.

he kisses his bride, and her lips are cold, and they taste like poison.

he smiles for his mother, for his father, for his lord.

he does his duty, and he does not regret.

remember this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . I have no regrets. 
> 
> You can't make me.
> 
> In all seriousness, I've wanted to work off of this idea for a while now and had no idea how to proceed. However, after reading FunnyFany and Sora_U's brilliant fanfictions using RavenBlight (™ of FunnyFanny) as a pairing, I felt like I had more of a grasp on the characters and what exactly I wanted to do with this idea. Seriously, go check them out, they're great. 
> 
> Alador is now my favorite Bastard Man™ thanks to them, and I needed a Dumb Bastard to go in line with Lilith's Dumb Bitch, and I'm looking forward to highlighting that as we move forward. 
> 
> As you can see, my brain vomited a LOT of ideas. . . . a LOT of them. So if you're here, pony up, 'cause it's gonna be a long haul, fuckers, and there's more where this came from. I'm also not entirely sure I like the style of this? Like, I wanted to experiment with an all lower-case kind of stream-of-consciousness aesthetic but I'm not entirely sure I captured that well here. Let me know what you think! I'll probably change that moving forward, honestly. 
> 
> This was. . . this was supposed to be a one-shot. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ONE-SHOT, GUYS, I HAVE OTHER STORIES AND FINALS COMING UP WHY DO i Do tHiS tO mYsELf?!!!!
> 
> But all-in-all, this was really fun to write, and I hope that you all enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading, it truly means a lot, and I hope to see you in the next one!


	2. atychiphobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alador blight is twenty years old, and his grandmama dies.
> 
> alador blight is twenty-four years old, and he is slipping.
> 
> alador blight is thirty years old, and he is a father.
> 
> alador blight is thirty years old, and he is broken.
> 
> remember this - it matters.

**_atychiphobia_ ** _: noun – fear of failure; fear of not being good enough_

~*O*~

alador blight is twenty years old when his grandmama dies.

it’s. . . not unexpected, per say. grandmama is. . . _was_ very old, very tired. but there’s a _hole_ in his heart. empty and cold, a gaping maw that threatens the very edges of his sanity. grandmama has always been strength. she has been soft touches and reassurances in the face of mother’s hard eyes and father’s heavy hands. and now she is nothing. a cold, rotting, stiff body that vaguely resembles the woman that was once his grandmama.

it hurts.

alador is a proper blight these days. he is straight-backed, solemn, soft-spoken. every inch the aristocrat, a charming smile and perfect explanation perpetually at the ready. his words are steel, and his abominations are the talk of the coven, and everyone knows his name. there is little to no trace of the boy who once came home with soiled clothes, bloody knees, and a story of two new friends. he is alador the great no longer, not the same boy who made the wood his own.

he is scarcely the same alador who became a blight two years ago.

he is colder. crueler. harder.

he is as a statue carved of marble, covered in ice. unyielding and so terribly brittle.

the burial rites his grandmama’s family observe are complex, complicated as any political maneuver the boiling isles has to offer. he stands rigid beside his wife as the ceremony begins. odalia is pristine in her funeral reds. one would think they would clash with her hair, but the shade is specifically chosen, as all things in her life are. her makeup is sharp, smooth, precise. the look in her eyes is sharper.

alador swallows. draws breath. begins chanting the burial incantation under his breath. members of the bard coven sing their songs, a wind rushing through the bare branches overhead. mother stands to his left, solemn and terrible, and draws a circle to ignite the flame of grandmama’s pyre. from ashes they came, from generous sacrifice of flesh made by the titan, and to the titan they return, as all things must. grandmama’s shroud is silken, and it is fine, and it is not near so opaque as to block her features from view.

she is weathered, worn. but more peaceful than he has seen since grandfather passed.

and alador’s heart _aches_ , because he remembers those quiet hours just prior.

mother would not accept her passing. screamed at the healers for _hours_ until father had to drag her away, unable to comprehend the inevitability of death. unable to handle the fact that the titan is not always kind, not always prepared to bless his witches with more time. not prepared to allow happiness when there is something to be learned.

though, alador is not sure what lesson there is in this.

all he has learned is that being numb is worse than being lost to despair.

and the pyre lights, and grandmama’s clothing begins to curl with heat. alador does not stop chanting. alador does not cry. alador firms his jaw, lifts his chin, and remembers.

he remembers sitting at grandmama’s bedside and holding her hand between his own. her skin was thin, papery, spiderwebbed with veins and so very delicate. he remembers thinking with a bit of awe that these were the hands that bandaged his wounds, that strummed a harp when he couldn’t sleep, that brushed the hair from his eyes as grandmama smiled at him. they had always been so warm, so strong, so kind.

in those final hours, they were weak, delicate, cold things. he’d felt as though he could shatter her with a single effortless twist.

alador remembers grandmama opening her eyes one final time. cloudy, milky with age and fever, they had nevertheless fixed on him without fail. his smile had been a small, strained thing.

grandmama’s was not.

“oh, my little lupin – you worry far too much,” she had rasped, voice small and frail. “death is merely another step, that is all.”

his smile had fallen. as had his tears. “i know, grandmama. but that doesn’t stop me from missing you.”

grandmama’s smile was serene. he remembers this through a haze. “little darling. . . do you know, i wasn’t a very good mother?” it felt like a confession, like a dearly held secret, and alador had been too terrified to breathe for the realization it brought. “i tried very hard to make your mother into a proper lady. but it was only when you were born that your grandfather and i realized we had been wrong. age brings _perspective_ , little lupin. it’s a terrible, wonderful gift.”

the pyre flame begins to twist. images of grandmama’s smile, brief echoes of her voice – rising high and soprano over the graveyard – and the faintest scent of her perfume emerging from the rising inferno.

he remembers grandmama’s smile growing sad, the way her twisted, frail hand lifted from his own to cup his cheek. her fingers were ice, skin stretched tight over bones. he remembers leaning into the touch as though he were a witchling once more. tears spilling over those delicate fingers because he couldn’t seem to _stop_ them.

“i tried to keep you free, alador,” she whispered, a quiet self-damnation as her thumb traced his cheek. “but your mother and father were far too well-trained, i fear. and you’ve already suffered the consequences of that.”

“i haven’t suffered, grandmama,” alador had sniffed. “i am a powerful member of society now, just as you wanted. i _am_ free.”

grandmama’s snort was so unladylike, it had taken alador aback somewhat. grandmama was _never_ so uncouth, so common in her mannerisms. though she had been very lenient in his playtime activities as a child, grandmama had been ever-so-strict concerning manners. but death is a funny thing – it strips us down to our essence until naught but the truth remains.

“you live in a cage, silly boy. a very pretty, very comfortable cage,” grandmama wheezed. “i have seen your wife, alador. she’s cold, _cruel_. and you? oh, my darling child. . . . you need someone _warm_ by your side. and you had her, once.”

alador watches the smoke and the flame and does not cry.

he remembers.

he remembers the way his heart had stopped, grasping tight to the withered hands of an old witch who had seen far more than she had ever told. he remembers the way her words had been so soft but so _jagged_ , broken porcelain bouncing off the dark walls of her sickroom. and he remembers how her smile was bitter, a black-humored thing in her gaunt, fever-wasted face.

the words had fallen from his lips like raw iron. “how did you _know_?”

“my love, you’ve never been able to keep secrets from grandmama. not really.” and the amused twist of her thin mouth had been _terrifying_. “she’s a beautiful girl, such _fire_. i never did learn her name.”

alador chants the incantations, watches the remains of his grandmama return to the titan from whence they came.

alador had whispered the name of his love like a confession to a dying woman. “lilith. her name is lilith.”

grandmama’s hands had shook when they brushed his hair from his eyes. “and you love her.”

he could still see her face. beautiful, delicate, porcelain, with eyes that shone like the sea. the way one cheek had a dimple when she smiled, how her nose wrinkled when frustrated, the _light_ that radiated from her entire being. alador had remembered and he had looked at his grandmama and gasped, “ _yes_.”

here, at this funeral, chanting the old words and grasping tight to his mother’s hand, he can see only the betrayal in lilith’s eyes. the hurt. the anger. the wounds he tore open and could not seal. and he remembers the hissing cry of “you’re a _coward_ , alador gaumond!” as he had walked away.

and grandmama had looked at him and sighed, stroked his face tenderly as though he were six again. “oh, my _darling_ boy. . . you need to do better than your grandfather and i did. we loved each other, and that is a _rarity_ in our circles, alador. do you understand?” her breathing had grown ragged, and alador clung tighter. “you need to be _better than us_ , my love.”

and alador had sniffled, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “i understand, grandmama.”

grandmama’s smile was soft, and it had lit her weathered features like the sun. “thank you, dear one. now, why don’t you go help your mother, hmm? grandfather’s here for me.”

and as alador had stood to leave, puzzled by her sudden confusion, he had heard grandmama laugh. “gaian, my love, it _took you_ long enough!”

she had been gone within the hour.

now the flames do not spiral. there are no colors, no singing, no perfume lingering on the air. there is nothing but a clearing filled with witches in red and a pile of bones in the center. his throat is raw. his hand is numb, bruised by his mother’s desperate grip. odalia’s touch is light, and it burns his other palm like ice.

alador understands, he thinks.

he needs to be _better_.

and he is better.

he is a high-ranking member of the abomination coven. he is on track to be the coven head. he is married to a woman of equal, if not greater, social standing, and they will have beautiful children to carry on the line of their magick. he is calm and composed and every inch the aristocrat. he is a _blight_.

so alador will be better.

and he will attempt to be faithful to his wife. to love her cold serpent’s gaze and her surgical wit and her venomous temper. and he will attempt to keep all those brilliant, golden moments with lilith tucked as deeply into his heart as he can muster. prevent himself from thinking traitorous thoughts about a lesser witch.

but, as he looks to the edge of the clearing and sees a pair of beautiful sapphire eyes staring at his own in sorrow, a cloak shrouding her delicate frame from the other mourners, alador knows he will be unsuccessful.

for how can he be better when he knows it will be lilith’s name on his dying breath?

~*O*~

alador blight is twenty-four years old, and he is slipping.

the abomination coven thrives beneath him. they are developing new techniques, new applications, new formulations daily. lord blight is still the coven head, still the leader to which everyone defers. but alador is clever, and alador is skilled, and alador is the _best_ at his craft. it seems to have come back to bite lord blight.

because, now, lower leaders of the coven defer to _alador_ first. and _alador_ has developed most of the newest techniques for distinguishing abomination types. and _alador_ is the one the high council has been requesting for meeting representation.

he works hard, harder than perhaps he should, but it is paying in full.

alador does not think about how the long hours spent at his office prevent him from returning to a wife with viper eyes, who doesn’t love him but instead parades him at social events like a prized trophy. he does not think about his mother’s hollow expression or his father’s helpless bearing in the face of her despair. he does not think how he dreams of summer warmth, surrounded by flutter-fairies and the lavender glow of the moon. he does not think of her smile, or her eyes, or her heartbroken expression when he left her as the sun rose.

he is a gaumond by birth, a blight by name.

blights do not regret, they move forward.

blights do not falter; they bear their weight with a steady jaw.

a blight he is, and a blight he shall remain.

but that does not remove the exhaustion burrowed deep into his marrow.

alador sighs and resists the urge to run his hands through his hair. he is nervous today, more nervous than he has been in a very long time. the annual covention is one of the most important events. it is an opportunity to display their strength. to prove the worth of their craft, and of course, by extension, the worth of the coven’s leadership. everything must go according to plan. not a circle out of place.

lord blight has left all coordination responsibilities to him, and alador knows this is a test.

_are worthy?_ the gesture whispers. _have you the fortitude to bear the weight? will you falter? will you fail?_

no, alador has decided. he will not fail.

alador is born and bred for excellence. his shoulders are broad, and his mind is clever, and his soul is made of steel. he will not fail, he has decided.

but that does not stop the shake of his hands, or the sweat slicking his palms as he watches the demonstration prior to his own.

odalia is . . . terrifyingly proficient at her craft. the illusions she is weaving, great dragons with silver wings and sirens dancing gently on the edges of the great arena, are almost _tangible_. she draws her circles and weaves her tale with little apparent effort. her smile is self-assured, near-toxic for its all mildness. the students amongst the crowd are entranced, lights suffused across their tiny faces, and alador wonders what it is like to be that terribly oblivious.

he does not remember innocence well.

the demonstration is ended with a blazing phoenix rising from its ashes, a cry echoing in the stones overhead. around them, the crowd roars. odalia bows, demure and saccharine. her predator eyes are sharp, and they cut like a blade as they stare into him. alador knows a challenge when he sees it.

his heart hardens. his fists clench. his chin raises.

_challenge accepted_.

principal bump once again takes the stage, lauding odalia’s performance and directing eager minds to the illusionist coven. the grins, wide and awe-struck, on the tiny faces surrounding them were oblivious to the monster which leads it. odalia is clever, and she is quick, and she strikes silently without warning. an enemy does not know they are in danger until it is far too late. an _ally_ does not realize their mistake until they are too entwined to run. it is part of her allure, part of her power.

bump does not know he sends lambs to slaughter.

“and now, a special demonstration brought to you directly from the abomination coven! please welcome second-in-command, alador blight!”

alador squares his shoulders. his hands stop shaking. he focuses on the arena before him. nothing but an open, empty expanse. perfect for creating new abominations. perfect for what he’s about to do.

hood of his deep blue cloak shielding his face, alador waits a moment. the lights drop. the crowd quiets. he draws in a breath. the crowd seems to do the same, a sea of children watching him with rapt curiosity. he can feel their eyes burning into him. expecting, _judging_. it is what they are meant to do, is it not? judge which coven best suits their needs? which one is powerful, which one has a leader strong enough to guide them.

alador stops. he breathes out. the silence deafens.

and then, a whisper. “abominations, _rise_!”

the circles expand from his fingertips, one after the next, to light the floor. and then the tell-tale groans begin. three standard abominations rise from the soil, bright violet clay shaped into vague humanoid shapes. behind them, however, are two large abominations. fifteen feet in height a piece, they tower over their standard counterparts, roaring rather than groaning. they are broader in the chest, thicker in the limbs. once formed, they all bow in tandem.

“ _wElCoMe tO oUr ShOw!”_ they greet.

the crowd erupts.

alador grins.

without missing a beat, he begins the exhibition. five abominations moving in sequence. they leap and parry and fight, accepting praise from the crowd, mental commands from alador. the two giants take up position as guards. they toss their smaller counterparts in complicated flips, balance them on their broad shoulders, then delicately remove alador’s cloak with fingers larger than his torso. they lift boulders upon command. they do it all without a groan. all the while, alador is speaking on the different career paths available to those in the abomination coven.

everything is smooth, powerful, _flawless_.

alador’s chest is burning. he’s pushing himself to the brink.

but the coven demands perfection. _alador_ demands perfection. and so perfection it shall be.

the display goes on for several minutes. he can feel eyes burning into him. judging, wondering, demanding. the children’s voices swirl in a whirlpool and become ringing bells. a funeral chant. alador does not crumple. he does not falter. the display comes to an end with alador being swept into the air, his abominations forming a pyramid beneath him. giants as the base, three typical specimens supporting him from atop their shoulders.

“so join the abomination coven, and summon your way to greatness!” alador finishes on a roar, sweeping into a low bow as the children erupt.

“tHaNk YoU!!” his abominations call in tandem.

slowly, very slowly, they lower him to the ground.

alador gathers his cloak, ignoring how his vision swims and his fingers shake. he walks, straight-backed and regal to the center of the arena.

“abominations, cower,” and his voice does not quaver.

one final, sweeping bow, and he is met with a standing ovation. the students are grinning, faces alight, and he knows that he has won. the challenge was accepted, and he has won. he was, _is_ , perfect to those applauding. principal bump begins to praise him, but the words distort, and alador knows that he must leave. his stomach twists, heaves, and his palms begin to sweat once more.

but alador leaves at a sedate pace, smiling for the little ones until he is out of sight. he maintains calm even as his limbs begin to fail, head swimming, heart pounding. bile climbs up his throat. but alador does not falter until he is safe within the walls of his dressing room, ignoring the smug, knowing expression gracing odalia’s face as he passes.

but once he is alone? once he is safe?

alador _falls_.

he barely makes it to the trash bin before his meagre breakfast resurfaces. it rushes past his lips, hot and acrid, and his stomach muscles are sore from the abuse they are taking. he shakes violently. sweat beads along his arms, on his palms, rolling down his temples. it matts his hair, even, and alador gags once more before finally, mercifully, drawing a breath.

the room is silent, but his ears ring, and alador wonders what sort of damage such strain might incur in the long-term. however, he cannot find it in himself to care overmuch. instead, he runs a trembling hand over his brow and breathes slowly. quietly. his abdomen aches. his vision is still blurry. but, ultimately, he has _won_.

the exhibition went _perfectly_.

_he_ was perfect.

and there will be no reason for odalia to sneer at him over dinner tonight, nor for lord blight to look down upon him with cold disappointment. he has done his best, and it was _perfection_ , and no one may fault him for that.

alador blight. second-in-command to the abomination coven. future lord of blight manor.

and he lays curled around his trash bin, shaking on the stone floor like a witchling.

it’s just absurd enough to make him want to laugh.

so he does.

he laughs. and he laughs. and he laughs.

until his ribs ache and tears stream from his eyes. alador laughs so long he can no longer tell if he is cackling or sobbing. so here he sits, curled around a vomit-filled trash bin with fingers that can’t even properly form a fist around his staff. his palisman, maia, unwinds from her perch and whimpers against his cheek.

the little she-wolf is his greatest companion, and her quiet, concerned yips slowly begin to pull him from the brink.

alador takes a deep breath. holds it. then lets it go. slowly, he pulls himself upright, wiping the tears from his cheeks with his pocket square. the vomit is disposed of silently, his breath hitching only occasionally as maia huddles tight in the junction of his throat and shoulder. alador finds that his hands still shake, and his vision is still wobbly, but he is more clear-headed than before.

he is put back into order without another word. hair fixed, tie straightened, clothes wrinkle-free with a quick flick of his wrist that makes the room spin.

alador is a blight – first, foremost, until death rends the spirit from his bones.

maia whimpers, ears pinned as he places the little timber wolf back onto her pole. the interlock on her paw feels like a damnation. for alador blight is perfect, yes, but. . .

he looks into the mirror and sees shattered glass and horror in his eyes.

perfection has a cost.

alador leaves his dressing room and tells not a soul.

~*O*~

alador is twenty-eight years old.

he has failed to produce an heir.

to the aristocrat, this is an omen of destruction.

remember that.

~*O*~

odalia’s nails are uncomfortably long, digging deep into the sensitive flesh of his elbow-ditch as they weave amongst the crowd. this gala is _important_ , possibly one of the most important events alador has attended in his young life. it is to commemorate the transition of power in the abomination coven, hosted and endorsed by the emperor himself. the grand ballroom of the emperor’s castle is a towering, beautiful thing, draped in white and indigo.

it is a sign that alador has done it. a sign that alador is the best, that he is more powerful than lord blight, that the fire in his blood is strong enough to separate the dragon from its horde.

and, to be sure, alador is proud of his accomplishment. he has worked hard. he _deserves this_.

but here, dressed in his finest tuxedo with not a hair out of place, beautiful wife tucked demurely into his side, he wants nothing more than to disappear.

crowds make him nervous, and they have since he was a child. there is something about a swirling mass of bodies, each face contorted into a facetious doll’s smile, eyes trailing his every movement with something just less than hostility. . . it is a dreadful feeling.

alador is a coward, but he is a coward who wishes to keep the threat in full view.

ballrooms are the prime space for assassinations – he knows this all too well.

“relax, _darling_ ,” odalia purrs, and her voice drips with poisoned honey. “you’re far too tense. this is meant to be a celebration of your _accomplishment_.”

the tightening of her grip that follows is likely to draw blood. alador does not flinch – he wants to keep his head attached to his shoulders. odalia is a proud, ambitious woman, yes. but many do not realize that she is very much her father’s princess. the only child of a powerful old line, she studied illusions at the behest of her mother but learned the art of social warfare at her father’s knee. she is dreadfully attached. to the point she finds his usurping lord blight’s position an afront.

alador smiles, inclines his head to lord merrymore and his husband – both are powerful members of the healing coven and useful potential allies – and leans towards odalia just the slightest bit. “i dislike crowds, dearest. i will relax once we are home at the manor.”

strictly speaking, this isn’t true. the manor is not home, not the halls of the gaumond estate that were lit with giant windows and filled with the sound of music. blight manor is cold, and it is dark, and it is not _home_ though he has lived there for a decade now. alador cannot remember the last time he truly relaxed. it is something his wife knows intimately.

odalia, however, is clever enough to hum in agreement.

the bite of her talon-nails eases somewhat as they glide through a horde of nobles, and odalia’s smile is nothing short of charming. he is still stiff, still distinctly uncomfortable by the sheer number of _bodies_ encroaching upon his personal space. there are so many things about these parties that are just. . . unnecessary.

still, alador accepts the praise graciously. he deserves it. he has _earned_ it.

eventually, he and odalia circle back to the head of the ballroom, surrounded by other high-ranking members of the main nine covens. his wife is the charmer between them. alador is too taciturn, too stern and serious to be a _true_ source of conversation, though he has all the skills to be charming. thankfully – or, perhaps, not so thankfully – odalia is all too willing to direct attention and form connections. a diplomat, through and through. privately, alador pities those who think his wife benevolent.

they’ll never see the knife until it is planted between their shoulder blades.

then, from the crush of people, he sees a figure. tall, slim, clad in a simple ebony gown that covers her neck to toe. a delicate heel, silver and sparkling, emerges from yards of silk and _legs, legs, legs._ ebony lace covers the entirety of her arms, stopping just at her delicate wrists. her hair is navy, smoothed into an elegant chignon and threaded with silver ivy. he has not seen her face, merely her profile, but the figure is familiar. familiar in a way that makes his heart pound a tattoo on the back of his breastbone.

she turns.

the air leaves alador’s lungs.

lilith clawthorne is just as beautiful as the day he left her. moreso, even. elegant, regal, composed in the face of a social class she did not grow up navigating. her makeup is minimal, though her lipstick is still dark, and alador’s mouth goes dry thinking about all the times he has cleaned that shade from his own face. the couple she speaks with are eating out of the palm of her hand.

but. . . there’s something different.

something that makes his stomach knot into a ball of ice.

his lilith was happy. her smiles were shy, but her eyes were full of light, and the sound of her laughter could make a grown witch weep. this lilith is regal, yes, but in the way a porcelain doll might be. her smile is tiny, without feeling, and her ocean-blue eyes are dead. cold. there are no tempests to be weathered, no salt-water spraying or lightning cracking against the confines of her features.

she’s. . . she’s _not the same_ , and something about that makes alador’s heart hurt.

he shakes himself mentally.

alador is a blight.

a blight does not regret. a blight does not look back.

a blight shoulders the burden of their greatness and _carries on_.

that is what he will do: he will carry on.

then a voice calls out above the crowd, high-pitched, elegant, and powerful. kikimora, the emperor’s assistant. “and now, for our opening dance!”

alador ignores the way his heart is suddenly in his throat, spewing magick bile into his veins at a rate that makes his skin tingle. commemorative balls such as this open the floor with the guest of honor and the highest-ranking member of the emperor’s coven dancing. a waltz, presumably. simple, awkward, but traditional. he knows the custom well.

so he cannot for the life of him figure out where these _nerves_ are sprouting from.

“presenting lord alador blight, new leader of the abomination coven!”

he puts on his most winning smile and strides to the middle of the dance floor, shoes echoing on the finely polished wood below. the crowd claps politely.

“presenting lilith clawthorne, second-in-command of the emperor’s coven!”

alador’s heart _stops_.

lilith turns away from him to hand her drink to a waiter and the milky expanse of her back greets him. oh _titan_ , her gown is backless. her _gown_ is _backless_ , and he is _married_ , and he is meant to _dance a waltz with her_.

somehow, he manages to keep hold of his external composure. internally, however, alador’s mind is frothing like a feral werewolf.

lilith walks slowly towards him, smiling demurely for the crowd.

behind them, the orchestra – graciously provided by the bard coven – begins preparing for their dance. alador takes a deep breath. he forces his voice not to shake and bows deeply to her.

“it is my greatest honor to be given such high responsibility,” he intones, the words falling heavy from his tongue. “the emperor and his coven are generous.”

lilith’s responding curtsy is flawless, and alador suddenly remembers the wobbly-kneed, bright-eyed girl who met him at six years old. “the true honor is ours. may you wield the power of your station well.”

with that, they step into the center. alador’s hands do not shake as they are placed, one on her waist ~~skin skin skin the dress does not have a back remain in propriety oh titan damn it all~~ and the other grasping her delicate hand. lilith meets his gaze coolly, as though they are perfect strangers. behind his mask, his heart breaks. the music swells, soft and lyrical.

and they begin to waltz.

it is so very different than those long hours spent dancing with her in the great wood. alador does not have his toes trod upon. there are no insects to bother them, no flutter-faeries jeering from the trees. they do not trip, and lilith does not look at her feet every two or so minutes. no, this waltz is smooth and graceful, and they glide as one across the high-polish floor as though they have been dancing together all their lives. to those watching, it is utter perfection.

to alador, it is a bitter disappointment.

as they dance, others join them. couple after couple swirling together in tandem, music rising to the ceiling high overhead. alador can feel the burn of eyes in the center of his spine. piercing, judging, knowing. he looks into lilith’s eyes, bright like sapphires and cold as a midwinter day, and tries to ignore the ache.

there are stars between his ribs, built of the moments they shared so long ago, and they are dying, one by one.

soon, all that will be left is space. a gaping maw of _nothing_ that swallows him whole and leaves behind the shell of a witch.

_i miss you_ , his mind whispers.

_i love you_ , his heart cries out.

lilith stares back. cool, composed, regal. everything a leading member of the emperor’s coven should be. he wants to bury his face in the crook of her neck. he wants to hold on and never let go. he wants to cry. he wants to kiss her once, twice, as many times as he can until the universe collapses.

the waltz ends.

alador turns lilith in a delicate spin, then releases her. gently, he takes her hand and kisses the knuckles. his lips linger no longer than is proper. but her skin is still warm and smells of lilac.

“a wonderful dance, my lady,” he drawls.

there is something shining in lilith’s eyes as she nods, and her voice wobbles just the _barest_ amount as she says, “thank you. i had a marvelous teacher.”

his heart stalls once more. but before alador can do more than draw breath, she is gone, the lily-white expanse of her bare back a flag of surrender amongst the violets and blues of the guests around them.

he does not follow lilith ~~no matter how much he wants to~~.

instead, alador clenches his jaw and strides off to find his wife.

odalia allows him to lead her in a waltz. but it is less comfortable, less polished. lilith is tall and slender and delicate, muscles flexing ever so gently beneath her skin. odalia is slender, yes, but her curves are more pronounced, her frame compact and powerful. married for eight years, and he is still not used to the feel of her in his arms. it’s a like trying to place a puzzle piece, one that is similar but only _just_ , into a slot it does not fit.

“you love her,” odalia whispers – it is not a question.

alador swallows and knows he must lie. “i’m sure i don’t know what you’re talking about.”

the mask odalia wears never falters. not _once_. but there is something bordering on bloodthirsty in her eyes as they dance.

“the others are talking. there are _rumors_ , dear heart. nasty little rumors.” her voice is bone-chilling for all its well-bred sweetness. “we’ve been married nearly a decade. and we _still_ have not produced an heir.”

there is a warning between the syllables, dripping into his bones like tar and threatening to drag him under. alador does not misstep in his dance even though his blood has turned to venom, ice crawling up his veins and stalling his heart for the second time tonight.

“it simply hasn’t been the right time, dear,” he evades. “you are very near to the top of the illusionist coven. i’ve only just now gotten to the top of the abomination coven. we work long and hard. bringing a child into the equation would stall progress.”

the secret to lies, he has found, is to put just enough truth into them to make them plausible. bringing a child into their world, as they fight and claw their way up the social ladder, is not conducive to their final goal. he does not mention that every time he lies with odalia it feels like betrayal. he does not mention that being so vulnerable near her is not pleasurable, is not sexy – instead it feels like baring his throat to a hungry she-wolf.

he does not mention that he fears for the safety of any children he and odalia bring into the world.

odalia swirls out into an elegant twirl, coming back to the circle of his arms with a glittering gaze and a smile that cuts like a knife. “of _course_ i know that, darling” she croons, and his spine freezes. “i would _never_ question your loyalty.”

the song comes to an end. they leave the dance floor, arm in arm, smiling for their audience like good little puppets.

the whisper against his ear makes alador want to retch. “if i ever catch you alone with her, if i hear the barest _whisper_ of something untoward happening between you two? i will **_break_** _her_. and they will never find the culprit.”

still smiling, still beautiful as a marble statue, odalia pulls back and moves to greet lady timber of the plant coven.

“do try to remember your place, _husband_.”

alador spends the rest of the event alone, speaking to other men in the abomination coven. he does not go after lilith. he does not stare longingly at the hole she left behind. he is a blight.

he shoulders the burden of his greatness without complaint.

he remembers his place.

~*O*~

alador blight is thirty years old.

he has two children.

he loves them – he _does_.

remember that for later.

~*O*~

“alador, _honestly_. you spoil them.”

alador tries not to feel affronted at the exasperation in his wife’s voice. he truly, honestly tries.

he fails spectacularly.

“spending time with my children when i’m able is not _spoiling_ them, odalia!” he argues. “in fact, i rather think they like me.”

edric and emira, his little prince and princess, gurgle up at him in agreement.

the twins were born in the dark of winter, edric directly after emira. they are beautiful children. small and delicate, with big gold eyes and soft evergreen curls that fall over their little pointed ears. and though he does not love his wife, does not love her cold heart or her sharp tongue, he has fallen absolutely, irrevocably in love with his children. he enjoys holding them when he can. he enjoys telling them stories and playing silly games as they grow. 

being a father is _enjoyable_ , and alador does not want this to be taken from him.

with a practiced hand, he adjusts the front of edric’s jumper. four months have given him time to gain his bearings with the children. they are small and delicate, but surprisingly sturdy. the messes they make are titanic in comparison to their tiny bodies. they make an _untitanly_ amount of noise – how could such sounds leave such small lungs, he wonders – but watching them grow is a treasure in of itself.

“we have _nannies_ to take them on daily walks,” odalia hisses. “really, alador, this isn’t proper!”

his heart seizes a bit.

alador, however, pays no mind. smiling quietly, he bounces edric in the crook of his arm before placing him in the buggy next to his sister. emira is the quieter of the two, watching with big eyes as she gnaws on one pudgy fist. as he adjusts their blankets, of which there are _many_ , edric reaches over to grab his sister’s cotton jumper. the tiny boy gurgles happily.

“odalia, please,” alador sighs. “i have only today to spend with them. allow me this.”

proper as always, odalia crosses her arms and surveys him coldly. “fine, then. have them back before nightfall. they won’t sleep properly if their routine is disturbed, and fantessa _always_ has them in for a feed at five o’clock.”

exhaustion weighs down his bones, and it is not from late night feeds or babes in need of a story.

“as you wish, dear.”

alador ensures the blankets are tucked firmly around his children, and sets off into the thin, early-spring sunshine. the pathway underneath him bumps gently under the buggy’s wheels. each step further from the manor relaxes his shoulders, and he smiles as the twins babble at one another in a language only they understand.

privately, he wishes there were more moments like this.

the abomination coven is thriving, ever growing, and powerful. each day he makes more and more advances in their magicks, developing new techniques and creations. there are new recruits joining their ranks each passing day. but there are draw-backs to his position, he thinks.

he is not home to enjoy his children, small as they are ~~terrified as he is.~~ he is likely to miss their first steps, their first words, their first birthday. though he they still recognize him now, there are days where both his children take moments to recognize him before he is graced with their gummy, brilliant smiles.

and in his heart, alador knows he will not be a good father. he is cold, and he is rigid, and he is far too concerned with his work than he is with his family. he _loves_ his children. emira is quiet and stoic, and she looks up at him with eyes that remind him terribly of his grandfather. edric is a bundle of sunshine, always laughing, always smiling. they play together in so much as they at this age, and he _loves them_. but he also knows that this age? where they are small and look at him as though he can do no wrong?

it will not last.

he wants to try. he _does_.

but. . .

there is something about the way odalia looks at their children, haughty and distant, that doesn’t sit well in his stomach. she does not hold the twins if she does not have to. she does not sing emira songs or play peek-a-boo with edric. she will display them like trophies when at social gatherings, smiling those too-perfect smiles and gushing with saccharine niceties. but it feels wrong. everything about this feels _wrong_.

alador sighs, and the breeze that ruffles his hair feels like forgiveness.

the twins continue burbling, and he idly checks to make sure the bonnet is protecting them from the sun, that their blankets have not fallen. he wants his children to be strong and healthy, not frozen. around them, the wood is cheerful, and he knows they have enough time to make an idle circuit through the trees and still return before odalia instructed.

“al?”

alador freezes in place. startled, he whirls, staff at the ready and teeth bore in a growl. maia’s eyes glow deep violet. one hand squeezes the handle of the buggy, and the wood groans ominously under his fingers.

edric giggles. emira coos and waves her hand.

“woah! shit, al, it’s just me! calm down!”

the woman that stares up at him is familiar. _too_ familiar. despite being shot through with silver, he’d know that mane of hair anywhere. alador’s shoulders relax. he growls quietly in annoyance.

“for pity’s sake, edalyn!” he scowls. “you should know better than to sneak up on someone like that!”

edalyn snorts and rolls her eyes, grin so lopsided it awakens a phantom ache in him. despite her being a _massive_ pain, he rather missed her crass sense of humor. some of the pranks she pulled were legendary.

hilarious, expensive, and _legendary_.

“yeah, well, i was gonna pick-pocket you until i figured out who you were.” she crosses her arms in front of her chest. “been a while, huh?”

“you just admitted to wanting to steal from the head of the abomination coven, and you pick _now_ to start with pleasantries?” alador deadpans.

edalyn’s grin widens, the glint of a new gold fang catching in the light. “well _doi_! you were one of my best friends, al. might as well be honest about my bullshit.”

despite his exasperation, alador cannot help but think edalyn is right. it has been so very long since he’s seen her. in fact, no one had seen her since the day she was to duel lilith for a position in the emperor’s coven. looking at her now, he can see the toll her curse – _lilith’s_ curse – has taken. her eyes are shadowed, exhausted, and her frame is wiry. there is silver in her hair, wrinkles on her skin. she looks older than her years. but none of that seems to deter edalyn.

then again, she’s always been terribly bold.

her bright gold eyes shoot to the buggy, and her expression falls into blatant curiosity. “those your brats?”

wary, alador nods. “edric and emira. they were born this last solstice.”

edalyn snorts. “of _course_ odalia would have kids on the solstice. what a bitch.”

it takes everything in him to muster a look of disapproval. “have a care about how you speak regarding my wife, _edalyn_. you’re a wanted woman, in case it’s slipped your mind.”

twenty-eight years old with a bounty greater than the blight fortune. all for the crime of being a wild witch. alador cringes to think of the shame she would bring a noble family. all that talent, all that _power_ , wasted on a pickpocket with a crass sense of humor.

and edalyn waves it off as though they were speaking of a parking ticket. “eh – it’s whatever. can i see ‘em?”

the phantom pain grows. alador nods anyway. regardless of her noise or her vulgarity, edalyn has a soft spot for kids. though, she would _never_ admit to such a thing. he watches carefully as she steps to the buggy. both twins grow quiet as a new face enters their view. edalyn tilts her head, eyes wide, expression almost confused. a thick clump of hair falls into the buggy, near edric’s hand. she doesn’t seem to mind when the tiny boy grabs it, waving it in his pudgy fist like a trophy.

after a moment, she scoffs. “damn, i think these poor little shits look more like odalia than you.”

alador thinks to warn her for all of two seconds before deciding against it. “there have been comments that they take after their mother’s side, yes.”

edalyn hums. “not all the way, though. they’ve got your eyes. kinda. . . warm? more like honey than amber.”

it’s a compliment that brings a startling memory to the forefront. little edalyn, all of seven, with gaps in her teeth and mud in her hair. they had been playing tag in this very wood. he’d tackled her, both cackling as they hit the dirt. lilith had gotten upset. said something about injuring one another. edalyn had shook her head, and in a loud, lisp declared, “al’s eyes are too nice to hurt me on purpose!”

he hadn’t understood it then. he still doesn’t understand it now

alador swallows thickly. “thank you. i’ve been blessed with beautiful children.”

there isn’t much warning before edalyn fixes him with an icy, accusatory stare. “you’d have been blessed with a lot more if you weren’t such a coward, alador gaumond.”

affronted, he blinks. “i beg your pardon?”

a sneer twists her features, and it is an ugly expression. “you’ve got two beautiful kids, a powerful wife with _lots_ of fake friends, and a job that works you straight to the bone. all because you decided that lily wasn’t good enough. and you don’t even seem to _give a shit_.”

there’s something dangerous in edalyn’s eyes, and he can practically taste the magick roiling around her. instinctively, alador places himself between her and the buggy. edalyn is powerful, more powerful than any witch without status has a right to be, and she is _dangerous_. he will not let her temper ruin his children. he will not let her temper _hurt_ his children.

“edalyn,” he begins, voice strangled, “you have _no idea_ what you’re talking about.”

her response is a savage facsimile of a grin, and it makes his nerves seize. “i know _exactly_ what i’m talking about. you broke her heart, al. you _broke her_.”

“what in the titan are you conjuring?!” he snarls. “lilith and i were. . .”

“if you tell me that you were nothing but friends, i swear on every ounce of my magick i will break your fucking spine.” edalyn’s hiss is nothing short of bestial, and something feral dances behind her burning eyes. “lily didn’t get out of bed for a _month_ after you broke it off with her. it nearly cost her position at that stupid coven. and now? all she does is work! i haven’t seen my sister in _years_ , and you _fucking broke her_. for what? a fancy house and odalia?!”

edalyn is shaking. seething.

alador feels like his world collapses.

he. . . he didn’t think. . .

“i should’ve done this years ago.”

the question doesn’t even have time to form before edalyn’s fist careens into his nose.

the pain that blooms across his face is extraordinary. it has been an exceedingly long time since someone thought to strike him.

well, strike him _physically._

blood fills his mouth, his nose. the world flashes white, then black. tears stream from his eyes, and his responding shout is drowned by both twins shrieking in surprise.

he’d jostled the buggy.

alador blinks. once, twice, three times, trying desperately to clear his vision. after a moment, it works. he spits blood onto the forest floor below and looks up.

before him, edalyn is shaking out her hand. even kneeling, he can see bruises beginning to form along her knuckles, the fingers swelling a tad. his face is a swelling mass of pain. odalia will be furious. behind them, the twins are starting to cry. he doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing there. he doesn’t know what finally set edalyn off.

but alador _does_ know he deserves this.

he deserves her ire. he deserves her hatred. he deserves to be struck.

he deserves all of this.

“ _shit_!” edalyn hisses. “it doesn’t hurt like that in movies! _what the hell is your face made of??!!”_

despite the pain, alador huffs out a chuckle. his tongue probes a cut on the inside of his lower lip. “typically, i would be offended by that question. but considering the amount of force you just struck me with, i’m willing to let it go.”

glower returning in full force, edalyn points at him.

“ _you_ don’t get to be witty,” she huffed. “i’m still pissed at you.”

alador stands. he uses his pocket square to stem the blood dripping from his nose. it’s very likely she’s broken it. the twins have stopped crying, curled around each other under their blanket. edric whimpers up at him. emira stares, seeming to glower with as much power as her tiny body can muster. they aren’t hurt.

thank _titan_. . .

“that’s fair enough, i suppose.”

there are tears trying to fall. they are not from the pain in his face.

alador fights them back anyway.

“it was good seeing you again, edalyn.”

he gathers himself, wheels the buggy around, and heads home. edalyn is swearing bitterly. there is magick on the air. hot and acrid, searing against his back. the wind rustles in his hair, whipping through the still-bare trees. the air smells stale. there is no promise of summer.

edric babbles up at him. his smile is returning, slowly but surely. emira is solemn as ever. but her eyes are bright and curious, little fingers working against the edge of her cashmere blanket. they do not know the implications of what they just witnessed. they do not understand that their father is moving slower, that he is using one hand to push their buggy. they do not understand that blood is slowly dripping over his chin, into his beard, soaking into the fine linen pressed against him.

they are children.

_his_ children.

they are safe ~~for now~~. they do not understand ~~for now.~~ they still look at him with trust in their eyes ~~for now~~.

alador cleans himself up before moving to the front door of blight manor. they are back well before odalia directed. the twins are fed, re-dressed, and placed in bed without fuss by a woman who is not their mother.

alador thinks this will be their last walk.

~*O*~

that night, he dreams about a walk in the wood.

it is summer, bright and warm with sunshine filtering through leaves. in his arms, edric is babbling in his arms, little brown curls shining copper when the light hits just right. he is plump and grinning and happy. alador smiles. emira is burbling to her mother at their side, solemn but engaged. her eyes are blue.

her eyes are _blue_.

the summer sun is bright and warm, and alador turns to his wife, grinning like an idiot.

“what are you smiling for?” she laughs, and it rings like silver bells.

“you’re perfect,” alador returns, tears welling. “this is perfect, and i just. . . love you. _so much_.”

lilith smiles back, gentle as a sunrise. emira is toying with a long curl and receives a kiss to the forehead for her troubles.

“i love you, too, you ridiculous man.”

alador doesn’t think his smile can get any wider. he wraps his free arm around lilith’s slender frame, and it feels like all his missing pieces return. purring, he tilts their foreheads together, breathing in the scent of lilac and talcum powder.

he leans in to kiss her.

his family crumbles.

the world fades to black.

alador sits upright in bed. next to him, odalia sleeps soundly. the room is cold, and it smells like mint and jasmine. his face hurts. his heart aches.

he lays back under the covers and cries.

he doesn’t sleep.

~*O*~

alador does not take his twins for walks anymore.

they do not receive cuddles. he does not tell them stories.

he works himself to the bone and keeps his interactions proper as odalia directs.

remember this – it matters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . . I don't have a problem. 
> 
> I _don't _.__
> 
> __This was really fast, and I'm probably going to have to go back and edit this. But these garbage fires wouldn't leave me alone, dammit, so I had to get it all written down before finals week._ _
> 
> __
> 
> __Right now, Alador doesn't seem as bad as he is in canon. He is young, and sad, and his bastard-ness only peeks through in rapid moments. But trust me, he's a giant asshole. And the fact that everyone keeps calling him a coward? It's because he is. If it looks like a pot, and functions like a pot, it probably ain't a kettle. Still, I had a lot of fun working on this, and I hope it meets your expectations!_ _
> 
> ___Because I made myself sad writing it.  
>    
> I also have to say thank you to all the wonderful people who left me kudos and comments. Your wonderful words have given me so much inspiration, and it's helped my confidence tremendously. So thank you once again, and I hope to see you in the next chapter!_


	3. torpe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "alador blight is thirty-four years old.  
> his son becomes ill.  
> this is a shatter-point event, the beginning of everything, if you will."
> 
> "lilith clawthorne is thirty-four years old.  
> she has only ever loved one person, one man, and it left has her a cracked shell.  
> insomnia initiates a chain reaction, emotions spilling one over the other, and spurs her down a new path."
> 
> remember - these events are important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: this chapter contains brief descriptions of panic-attacks, anxiety, self-harm, and one dumbass lying to himself about what an abusive BITCH his wife is gonna be. Please, be kind to yourselves.

**_torpe:_ ** _noun – a man who is desperately in love with a woman, but cannot admit his feelings or approach her_

~*O*~

alador blight is thirty-four years old.

his son becomes ill.

this is a shatter-point event, the beginning of everything, if you will.

it is a moment where he forgets reason, forgets propriety, and is simply. . .

alador.

remember; this is important.

~*O*~

alador is not an attentive father. he is not a doting father. he is a father who maintains a proper distance from his children and makes sure they are provided the best. the best nannies, the best tutors, the best clothing. nothing is too good for his children – he works hard, far harder than perhaps he should, to ensure they want for nothing.

nothing, that is, except something he cannot provide.

it’s a thought that plagues him, and though alador is a blight, he cannot help but think he is making a mistake by allowing odalia to dictate his interactions with the children.

edric and emira are bright, eager little things, clever in a way that makes them prone to boredom. to mischief. newly four they may be but they’ve sent no less than five nannies running in the last few months. little amity has only just passed a year old, but he can already tell she is brilliant. quiet, contemplative, and _brilliant_. they look up at him with his eyes, staring out at him from odalia’s features, and they do not understand the complexities behind their existence.

they do not understand why papa doesn’t play with them, even when they ask.

alador sighs and brings a hand up, massaging the bridge of his nose. he has been staring at recruit applications for too long, pictures of children no older than fourteen staring up at him from scrolls, covered in pimples and bright with naivety. the strain makes him melancholy, exasperated. his hand is cramping from too many hours of writing. his eyes burn. his back and his head are killing him.

he’s tired – it’s nearing eleven in the evening.

but there is work to be done.

quietly, he flicks his wrist, and the abomination he summons to maintain his office stokes the fire just a tad. it is winter, and the study in blight manor remains cold and dark as it was all those years ago. warmth rushes over him, and alador closes his eyes for a moment, resting against the padded back of his chair. it isn’t a particularly comfortable position – the chair is designed to place one in proper writing position, liberally forged with spells to make slouching nigh-impossible – but it is better than nothing.

he allows his mind to go blank for the first time all day. no thoughts. no worries. no work. just. . . quiet darkness. 

alador revels in the peace for all of ten seconds before it is ruined.

knocking, gentle but frantic, pushes him out of his bubble.

alador sighs for quite possibly the tenth time in an hour.

“come!” he allows, and the door swings open to reveal. . . the nanny?

the mask that falls over his face instinctively conceals his puzzlement, but alador cannot help but be horribly confused. morena is the only nanny who has remained with his family since the birth of the twins. a small woman, quiet and unassuming, but possessing a delicate temperament the children simply adore. she has bathed his children, and fed them their meals, and loved them with every ounce of conviction she has in her body.

in alador’s opinion, better witches are few and far between.

morena does not wait for him to voice confusion. instead, she steps fully into his study with an expression that makes cold dread settle in the pit of his stomach, brow knitted and hands wringing in front of her abdomen.

“i apologize for the interruption, lord blight,” she blurts, rushed and high-pitched with worry. “but this is very important.”

morena has only once interrupted his work in all four years of her service. the first time was when emira fell in the playroom, splitting her delicate head on open against the floor. there had been so much _blood_. . .

the dread solidifies into ice, and alador drops his pen to the desk. “what’s wrong? is it the children?”

fear is welling in morena’s dark eyes, and she nods. “little edric has been ill for the last few days, sir. and i thought it was just a bit of a croup! but now. . . his fever keeps getting higher, and he can’t sleep for coughing. he sounds _awful_ , sir, and i wanted to ask you to call a healer?”

alador had known that his son wasn’t feeling well, had taken morena’s expertise to heart when she said not to worry. he stands. his abomination cowers without a sound.

“take me to him,” alador barks.

morena flinches, leads him towards the nursery with quaking fingers and tears in her eyes.

alador does not have room in his heart to care.

the nursery is tucked away on the upper floor, bright and painted in pastel greens and gold. amity is sleeping peacefully in her bassinette when they enter. how, he cannot say, because edric’s coughs are bone-shattering. they rip from his little body one after the other, coupled with raw wheezing and a pitiful whine every other second. he cannot seem to catch his breath, eyes half-lidded as he struggles for air. emira is sitting upright in her own tiny bed, wrapped in her lavender blankets and watching her twin with wide, fear-stricken eyes.

“edric? edric, darling, your papa’s here,” morena coos.

it is a new sensation, the terror that rips through alador the moment his son’s fever-glazed eyes meet his own. he kneels by edric’s bed and swallows thickly. edric is an active child, bright and clever, personable and full of energy. in private moments, far from odalia’s prying eyes, alador allows himself the pleasure of wondering why the titan gave him a child with edalyn clawthorne’s personality.

in this moment, however, all he sees is a sick, terrified little boy, staring up at him with his grandfather’s eyes.

“papa?” edric croaks. “i don’ feel good.”

it’s dreadfully apparent. edric is pale save for two spots of high color on his cheeks, dark bruises under his little eyes. his ears droop terribly. the heat radiating from his tiny body is startling, and alador only just stops himself from flinching away when he reaches out to touch the boy. the tiny cheek he cradles rests perfectly in his palm but his skin is searing. too hot. _too hot_.

panic settles behind his breastbone, behind his eyes, and he looks up to morena with a snarl. she flinches terribly. scared rabbit – perhaps she should not be employed in the wolf’s den.

“how could you let him get this ill?!” alador growls, voice low. “you should’ve come to me the _moment_ you suspected he was growing worse!!”

morena trembles. emira flinches in her tiny bed, burrowed in her blankets, watching him with big gold eyes. edric whines, crying pitifully, and alador cannot help himself. he pulls the tot into his arms, standing without a word, and allows his son to burrow into his chest. the heat is even more startling like this. it feels as though edric is burning from the inside out, body fighting against him, rebelling in the only way it knows how.

“i tried speaking to lady blight yesterday evening, sir,” the girl warbles. “she said edric would likely turn the corner by sunrise and i was not to disturb either of you.”

for the first time since his marriage, alador allows himself to feel nothing but sheer, black hatred for his wife. it rushes through him, fills him to the brim, and shatters his carefully crafted mask of indifference. odalia left earlier this morning, a joint conjuring at the skull with the oracle coven. and she had _known_ about the illness. had _known_ about morena’s concern.

and she still didn’t bother to tell him.

morena shrinks further in on herself. against him, edric dissolves into another coughing fit.

“there are few healers that will work at this time of night,” alador growls. “even fewer would be willing to come to the manor without significant. . . _compensation_.”

tears stream freely down morena’s face. she is a timid, frightened thing, cowed by a mere look. but the stark worry, the affection in her gaze, cools his ire somewhat. “what do we need to do, sir?”

hot, hot, hot, too hot. edric’s forehead is a brand against his throat, and alador sees nothing but a narrow tunnel. black closes in from all sides. it thrums in time with his pulse. he tightens his grasp on the boy and snatches a blanket off his bed. thoughts race through his head. flashes of images, of scenarios, moving too quickly to fully process.

eventually, unconsciously, a plan forms.

“you will stay here. watch over emira and amity while i take edric to see a healer.” the orders are clipped, just barely making it past his teeth before they are bitten off. “let no one else know of this. is that _completely_ understood?”

morena sniffs once. but she nods and rasps, “yes, sir. of course, sir.”

alador sweeps out of the room without another word. his pulse rings in his ears like a funeral chant. all he can hear is the sound of edric’s breathing, hard and harsh, a wheezing strain for air that scrapes his nerves raw. his hands shake. the world dissolves.

one step. then another. hold edric tight. maia’s eyes glow violet as he sweeps into the sky.

another breath. hard and harsh. edric dissolves into a fit – it sounds like he’s _dying_.

the air is cold as it whips in his face. alador can’t hear it. all he hears is the sound of his son. wheezing. coughing. gasping for air that doesn’t seem to make it in his lungs. the world passes in a blur of color. maia knows where she is to go. alador’s plan is a wash of colors. a blur of panic that makes his pulse race and his throat seize.

maia stops.

edric wheezes against his throat, crying pitifully. “papa!”

alador begins to run. his footsteps echo against polished wood, roaring in time with his pulse. he cannot feel the weight of edric in his arms – the boy is miniscule – but he feels the heat radiating off him. it burns. fire against his chest.

he bursts through a door, down a corridor. he’s sprinting. it’s uncouth, unrefined, beneath his station. there are _people_ here, guards in white cloaks and black trousers. they watch him as he passes. he thinks they might be trying to call after him, but all alador hears is static, crackling magick that snaps through the air like a storm. a left, then a right, down a long corridor. double doors, up ahead, an open palm imprinted upon them.

the healing coven.

he does not care about decorum. he does not care about his status. he does not care about what his wife will say when she hears of this, _if_ she hears of this.

for the first time in his life, alador _does not care_.

alador bursts through the doors with panic in his eyes and terror in his heart, and shouts, “i need a healer!!!”

three witches approach him in short order. one witch rips edric from his arms and gasps something to their colleagues. one witch begins asking him questions, but alador cannot hear them for the sound of popping static in his ears. one witch shoves the others away. they take his son.

they _take his son_.

magick rips from his fingers, and he _snarls_ , and he reaches through the void of black and static for his son. something grabs at his arms. bubbles pop in his ears. alador lashes out. something – some _one_ – collides with his side, and he fights. he smashes a fist into them. the magick in his fingers. somewhere, an abomination groans – no, _roars_ – and the water bubbles sound more frantic. frightened. the come faster, louder, and somewhere in his mind alador knows this is wrong.

_he_ came _here_.

so why is he fighting??

a water bubble pops, and he hears a ragged, broken, “papa!!!”

something in his chest snaps, and alador remembers. they took him.

they _took him_.

edric, who laughs and plays and giggles with his sisters. edric, who always wears a smile and is an endless source of mischief. edric, who reminds him so painfully of his once-friend that sometimes alador cannot bear to be in the same room with him. edric, his son, who only knows him from rare dinners spent around a cold table and vague memories of a time long past.

edric, who is so sick he cannot breathe and calls out so pitifully it makes his father’s heart _break_ and he. . .

he can’t. . . he _can’t_. . .

_somnolus!_ a voice, deep and piercing, booms into his ears, into his skull, into his bones.

the world blackens. the water bubbles stop.

and alador knows no more.

~*O*~

lilith clawthorne is thirty-four years old.

she has only ever loved one person, one man, and it left has her a cracked shell.

insomnia initiates a chain reaction, emotions spilling one over the other, and spurs her down a new path.

remember this.

~*O*~

lilith clawthorne does not sleep.

it is a fact she came to terms with long ago. though her body is exhausted, though her bones ache, there are too many regrets, too many worries, for sleep to come easily. piled one on top the other, stacked like stones to form walls along her heart.

she is not a good sister. she is not a good protector. she cursed edalyn and now she cannot find a cure. she cannot even find the courage to find her baby sister, to look into those big eyes that loved so hard and trusted so easily and say the words, “i caused this. i’m sorry.” instead, she buries herself in work and adds more stones to the wall.

she is not a noble. she is not of high-birth, though she is now of high-rank. she fell in love with alador gaumond ~~blight blight blight he is married now and she cannot have him~~ and now her heart lies in fractured pieces. it is a fragile, stunted thing. try though she might, she cannot make the pieces seal together again. she does not have the courage or the strength to try.

the pieces stack, one stone on top of the next, and so lilith does not sleep.

instead, lilith walks the castle, robe wrapped tight to ward off the chill. it is a familiar route. the guards know better than to disturb her. they watch with disinterest as she wanders, arms behind their backs, faces shrouded by their hoods. down the tower stairs, through darkened corridors. on occasion, she will stop and look out over the crevasse that protects the titan’s beating heart, the fortress that keeps her emperor safe.

on occasion, she wonders if that is what she has done to herself.

she wonders if she has formed a crevasse around her heart, so deep and so jagged nothing can touch it again.

those moments are few and far between because they are bridged by nights where her body gives in to unconsciousness, leaving her alone to deal with dreams of that which cannot be.

she dreams of a man with eyes warm and bright, honey-gold, and a wolfish grin that makes her heart _soar_. she dreams of them dancing between the trees, safe in his arms, laughing as the moon shines lavender overhead. she dreams of the way his beard scraped her skin, the way he kissed her like a precious thing, the feeling of his hands – so broad and strong and gentle – cradled the back of her head.

she dreams of a time long passed, where he loved _her_ and smiled for _her_ and lounged with _her_ in the cocoon of a hammock on a summer night. she dreams of the steady thrum of his purr under her ear, the smell of pine and petrichor that always clung to his skin. she dreams of safety, of warmth, of knowing that his hand would be there to hold hers. she dreams of his ridiculous sense of humor and the way he used to play with her hair, twisting curls idly around his fingers, and how he would whisper _i love you_ when he thought she was asleep.

she dreams of children with his eyes and smile and copper-brown curls that frame their sweet little faces. she dreams of laughter as they play in the garden, chased by their father and aunt eda. she dreams of singing lullabies and kissing scrapes and reading stories and being there to pick them up in a way her parents never were.

she dreams of a _family_. of a husband who loves her, of a sister who is healthy and whole, of children with their father’s smile.

it never lasts – she always wakes up.

and the pain is so stark lilith vows never to sleep again.

lather, rinse, repeat.

so she wanders.

that is how she hears the crying. lilith’s path takes her past the infirmary, the healers consistently attempting to convince her that, yes, dreamless sleep potions _will_ work this time. tonight, however, there are no attempts. there is nothing but the sound of frantic footsteps and a tiny voice, crying pitifully between coughs.

it tugs at her, draws her like a string until she is standing between ornate double-doors and staring at a scene that makes her question reality.

healers bustle around two cots, light spells thrown across the near-empty hall to illuminate their patient. they whisper back and forth furiously. spell circles light the air at rapid pace. deep indigo, then aqua, then violet. one after the next. a little boy continues to whine, to cough. it’s difficult to make out his tiny form amongst all the larger bodies crowded about him. but she catches glimpses, a pale little face with fever-bright cheeks and big, frightened honey-gold eyes.

her heart seizes.

lilith does not realize she has walked fully into the room until she is nearly in the middle of everything. one turns, a witch with silver eyes and lilac hair, and startles at her presence. thaine vandran, if she remembers correctly.

“madame clawthorne!” they gasp. “you startled me!”

lilith blinks for a moment, taken aback by her own lack of situational awareness, and stammers, “i- i was out for my evening walk, and i heard crying. is everything quite alright?”

silver eyes gleam with sympathy and apprehension, glancing to lilith’s left. “lord blight came in about twenty minutes ago with his son,” they answer slowly, cautious. “the little one has a nasty case of dryad cough. we’re trying to get his fever down.”

lilith’s stomach drops to her ankles, shoulders tightening at the mention of alador. _lord blight_ , they call him, as though leonidas blight does not stalk the isles still. as though his shadow does not haunt the headquarters of the abomination coven. as though his legacy does not live on in odalia blight’s cruel, wicked smirk.

mouth dry, stomach heaving, lilith chances a look to where healer vandran had been stealing glances. and there lays alador blight, limbs sprawled, face slack. his immaculate clothes are wrinkled, a suspicious stain along the front of his waistcoat. there are wrinkles in his forehead. his hair is a tangled, wind-swept mess.

her heart is slamming inside her ribcage, and lilith wants desperately to flee, to be anywhere but in this darkened infirmary ward.

“lord blight was in an awful state when he arrived,” vandran whispers, ears pinned, hands wringing. “healer lucius had to place him under a sleep spell to keep him from fighting us. he must have been. . .”

“terrified,” lilith finishes, and it feels as though she has swallowed molten iron. “alador dislikes losing control of a situation.”

another pitiful cry, followed by a coughing fit that makes her chest ache, snaps lilith from her downward spiral. she turns, and her eyes land on the little one. he looks terribly small, tiny and frail and afraid. his eyes are honey-gold, red-rimmed and filled with tears. one of the other healers is trying to get him to take a potion. the little one swats at it, fights them as much as his fever-ridden body can.

the cracks in her heart deepen. the crevasse grows easier to span.

“madame clawthorne?! what are you doing here?!”

she ignores them.

instead, lilith approaches the bed. the other witches recoil in shock, unaware of her presence as they were. healer lucius, a large man with stern violet eyes and a face carved in granite, regards her with suspicion. the other little witch, a mousy thing with four eyes, appears to be going out of her way to look anywhere but at her.

only the little boy, still sniffling and coughing through his tears, regards her with something akin to curiosity.

“hello, little one,” she murmurs, kneeling by his bedside. “my name is lilith. what’s yours?”

he sniffles, honey-gold eyes so miserable they threaten to break her. “’m edric,” he hiccoughs.

“edric?” she repeats, attempting a smile for him. “that’s a wonderful name for such a handsome young man.”

the little boy – edric, his name is edric – wraps himself tighter in his blankets, eyes wet, lip wobbling. “i don’ feel good,” he complains, fat tears rolling over his chubby cheeks. “papa yelled. an’ i don’ know nobody. an’ they wan’ me t’ take med’cine.”

her heart _aches_.

“i’m sorry, little one.” she reaches out to run a hand through his hair, evergreen curls soft under her fingertips. “this must be very scary.”

more tears. edric nods frantically. “uh-huh! i-i wanna go _home_!”

without thinking, lilith slides onto the bed and pulls him into her lap. edric burrows in tight, shuddering against her chest as he cries. the heat radiating off him is startling, and lilith understands why alador was so panicked in the moment.

“your papa brought you here for a reason, little one,” she explains. “the healers are going to give you potions and run some tests, and they’re going to make you feel all better. okay? there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

edric sniffles. a little fist tangles itself in a loose shank of her hair. “promise?”

“i promise. now, why don’t you sit here with me while healer lucius gives you your potion?” she runs her hand over his head, gently maneuvering him to face forward, leaning back against her chest.

edric whines, and it does not escape her notice how easily he began to trust her. that he has not once asked for his mother, that he only rarely glances to where alador sleeps. “’s gonna be yucky.”

lilith’s smile feels genuine this time, and she feels only a little smug at the bafflement plastered on the faces watching. “perhaps – but it will make you feel better. and it will only be for a moment. will you take your potions for me please?”

the hand wrapped in her hair never moves, but edric reaches with the other to cling to her fingers, and the chasm in her chest deepens.

“okay,” he whispers.

the healers waste no time. they pour elixir after elixir into his tiny body, purples and golds and silvers and one that gleams like an oil slick. each one is met with a shudder, a whimper, and more tears. but edric does not fight. instead, he clings tight to her hand. when they are done, he wastes no time in whirling to press his face into the crook of her neck.

lilith does not chastise him. lilith does not complain. lilith holds him just as tight, allowing herself to feel relief as the heat in his skin begins to lessen, as sweat begins to bead along his brow.

healer vandran offers her a smile, and they say, “alright, edric, we’re done for now. why don’t you try to get some sleep? we’ll be in to check on you in a little while.”

against her chest, edric stiffens, and he peeks up with eyes so like his father’s they make her want to scream. “will you stay with me?” he whimpers, hoarse and exhausted. “please, ms. lil. . . lil.”

the smile doesn’t quite fit on her lips, but she offers him one anyway. “you may call me ‘lily’, if you would like.”

edric gnaws his lip. “will you stay with me, ms. lily?”

she should go to bed because it is nearing one in the morning. she should allow the healers to watch him. she should allow his _father_ to watch him. she should not grow attached to a child who is none of her concern. she should stay away and lay another stone on her wall.

“of course, edric.” lilith glances up to healer lucius. “that is, if it is okay with you?”

he watches her for a moment, gaze hard, before nodding. “aye – that’s fine. make sure you sleep as well, you hear?”

lilith nods. she knows that there will be no sleep for her tonight, but the sentiment is appreciated, nonetheless. “i shall, thank you.”

another long look, and he is marching away, barking orders at the other, mousy healer. healer vandran shoots her one final smile before they follow. and lilith is left alone, cradling the son of a married man she still loves.

it’s an ache she’s brought upon herself, a raw sore that’s been salted, and lilith can blame nothing but her own shattered, withered heart. beside them, alador sleeps on. his breaths are deep, even and slow.

edric snuggles his cheek against her collarbone. “ms. lily? can you sing to me?”

his little voice is weak, tentative, and lilith begins rocking him on instinct. “hmm? do your mommy and daddy sing to you before bed?”

“nuh-uh,” he croaks. “rena sings f’r me an’ em an’ mittens. so we have good dreams.”

lilith’s throat constricts at the innocent confession. “oh? what kind of things does she sing?”

his little body is growing more relaxed by the moment. she may even get away without singing. but there is something soothing about having his little body against her, warm and safe, and she rubs one hand along his back.

“emmy likes hearing the kitten lullaby.” a common song, one sang by nannies far and wide, and it cements who “rena” is in her mind. “mittens likes it when she reads otabin.”

lilith hums. “and who is mittens?”

the little fingers in her hair begin making idle circles. not pulling, just. . . feeling. “she’s my little-little sister. her real name’s amity, but she likes wearin’ mittens, so we call her that instead. emmy’s my other sister.”

slowly, gently, lilith shifts him so he is cradled tighter against her chest, his little head pillowed on her shoulder. she leans against the headboard of his cot. metal digs into her spine, her shoulder-blades. it’s uncomfortable. but edric looks at her with sleepy, sick eyes and round cheeks, and she finds she could no more say no to him than the emperor himself.

she could no more say no to him than she could his father, who sleeps beside them with a wrinkle in his brow and her heart clenched in his fist.

“and what do you like rena to sing?” she questions, voice soft.

edric smiles, and his eyelids droop. “i like pretty songs. ‘bout ‘ventures.”

her heart is broken. it is surrounded by a crevasse, a chasm. it is cracked and withered and surrounded by a stone wall so high many find her impossible to reach. that is how she likes it. she does not like to let others in. they cannot hurt her this way.

but this little boy has his father’s eyes, and his father’s smile, and he has built a bridge.

she leans down and kisses his forehead. “i think i know just the song. would you like to hear it?”

edric nods.

lilith draws a breath.

and for the first time in over a decade, lilith _sings_.

~*O*~

alador wakes to singing.

his mind is fuzzy, clouded with sleep and exhaustion and a bone-deep _rage_ that he cannot seem to shake. there is a lonely tinge of magick, wrapped around the edge of his vision. familiarity washes over him. but he cannot seem to place where he has heard this before. it’s a woman’s voice, quiet and lyrical. a lullaby. it nearly sends him back to sleep.

“ _wind and rain, the moon on the sea. . . darling, please, return to me. . . hear my voice and sing with the tides. . . my love will be your guide.”_

high but quiet, a melody that sinks into his skin. the words are equally familiar. but where? he’s just so damnably tired. sleep tries to claw him back under.

_“watch the waves, dive deep in the blue. . . my heart will e’er belong to you. . . no matter how the years pass by. . . my love will be your guide.”_

it snaps into place.

tears sting his eyes, clog his throat, and alador cannot breathe for the grief that threatens him.

slowly, he cracks open an eye to confirm what his ears tell him. blurred though his vision is, the silhouette is unmistakable, branded against his soul like the abomination glyph on his wrist.

lilith sits on the bed with his son, cradling the boy against her chest as she sings. edric looks at her sleepily, cocooned in his blankets. one thumb is tucked in his mouth. the other clumsily plays with a long shank of indigo hair. despite an occasional tug, lilith does not seemed bothered. in fact, she smiles at him, warmth in her eyes as she smooths a thumb over his tiny brow. edric sags into the touch. the lullaby continues.

_“come, my child, be one with the sea. . . and you’ll be free for eternity. . . storms and sails, oh though they may try. . . my love will never die.”_

it’s an old melody, a family lullaby. he remembers lilith singing it to edalyn when they were younger. he remembers her saying it was their favorite.

he remembers lilith swearing only to sing it to her children.

the tears fall.

_“hear the song sang so long ago. . . no matter how the storm may blow. . . you will find the key in your heart. . . we’ll never be apart.”_

edric is fading into sleep. his little arms are going lax, head lolling against her shoulder. lilith continues rocking him on the bed, gently smoothing hair from his face and beginning to maneuver him under his blankets. she begins by unwinding her hair from his fingers. her smile remains. her shoulders are stiff with agony.

_“wild and strong, they cannot contain. . . your heart, my love, will ne’er be chained. . . wounds you’ll gain, but oh they shall mend. . . victorious in the end.”_

lilith finishes the verse and tucks edric in. the boy is well and truly asleep, but she sits on the edge of his cot regardless, stroking a gentle hand through his hair. she finishes the lullaby in full.

as he sleeps, edric smiles.

as he sleeps, alador listens.

“ _wind and rain, the moon on the sea. . . darling, please, return to me. . . hear my voice and sing with the tides. . . my love will be your guide.”_

the lasts note carries, high and melancholy, through the darkened infirmary. lilith allows the silence to ring afterwards. he can barely see her through the pale violet glow of the moon. but alador knows her posture, knows the stiff bearing of shoulders and tense set of her jaw. she is crying.

quietly, gently, she leans in to press a kiss against edric’s forehead.

“sleep well, little one,” she whispers.

she does not glance alador’s way as she leaves. and why would she? she is under the impression he is asleep.

but he is not asleep. and every inch of his being is crying out to go after her. to hold her tight. to apologize until the words run empty.

alador does none of these things – he sits in his chair, bites his lip, and cries.

a coward to the core. . .

~*O*~

they return home the following day.

alador is quick to apologize for his abrupt entrance, for his abominable behavior. he follows his apology with a subtle threat should the story reach inhospitable ears. healer lucius waves him off with a stern glare, states that he needs to speak to someone about his anxiety, that attacks such as his are not normal. that he is “stressed” and “exhausted” and “needs a healthy outlet” they are willing to provide.

the words are taken with a smile, and alador makes a promise he has no intention of keeping. it is obvious the healer does not believe him. but there is not much they can do. instead, they focus attention on edric’s care as he slumbers away in his bed.

edric is given a regimen of potions to complete, but his fever has not returned, and the disease constricting his tiny lungs flees before their magick. he asks about “ms. lily” before they leave, eyes searching the infirmary for her familiar silhouette. he babbles about a wonderful lullaby, that she held him and talked to him and helped him not be scared while papa was sleeping. alador tells him that he is mistaken, that his mother visited the night before. that his fever was very high, that he was very sick.

he wraps his son, tiny and trusting, in his blankets, and lies to keep him safe.

and if, as they leave the front gates, he spots a familiar silhouette and sapphire eyes watching their departure from the shadows, he makes no mention of it.

they return to the manor well before odalia is set to return. morena greets him at the door with bruises stark under her eyes. edric is quick to greet her, voice still hoarse but cheerful all the same. she flinches from his stare but smiles for his son, and that is almost enough to mollify alador.

almost. . . but not quite.

“edric is to remain in bed for the next three days,” he instructs, voice sharp. “you will follow the instructions to administer his potions to _the letter_. should his condition change at any point or should any of the other children begin to display symptoms, you will come directly to me. is that completely understood?”

morena nods. “of course, lord blight! i understand.”

lips tight, shoulders aching, alador hands her his son and the potions he carries. “good. i am retiring to my room.”

he leaves without another word. he does not turn when edric rasps a confused, “papa?” he does not succumb to the urge to check on his other children.

instead, alador heads straight to the master bedroom. the door closes behind him with a heavy “ _thud!_ ” echoing and hollow. for a moment, all he does is stand there, staring about the room in confusion. there is a stone in his chest where his heart should be.

the room is dark. though there are great windows along the walls, stained all colors of the spectrum in patterns that defy logic, the room is dark. it is dark, and it is cold, and an argument might be made that it is not entirely sane in this room. it is stately, and it is opulent, crafted in rich dark woods and heavy velvet draperies. history lines the walls. names and dates and weapons that have been passed over generations until they culminate, resting in this room, at this time.

alador stares at the dark walls and the great four-poster bed, draped in rich silk sheets and heavy furs. he stares at the fireplace which never seems to warm the air. he stares at the portrait, hanging on the far wall, watching him with eyes that do not blink but mock all the same.

odalia, one hand resting on each of the twins’ shoulders, arrogant and unrepentant. edric, smiling out with apprehension. emira, whose face is closed on a good day and nigh unreadable on a bad. amity, who stares in confusion from her place in his arms.

and his own face, proud, taciturn, and stern. his eyes are cold. _coward_ , they mock.

_is your cage quite comfortable?_

he remembers grandmama on her death bed, milky and riddled with fever. _you live in a cage, silly boy_ , she had wheezed. _a very pretty, very comfortable cage._

she was right.

this house was a prison, and this room is his cell, and alador does not have teeth, or claws, or the rabid strength of a wolf to fight. he has three children whom he loves deeply, dearly, but who do not know him. he has a wife whom he _hates_ , whose predator eyes and high-cold laughter he despises. he has riches and power and status and everything that a man of his station should want and he _hates it_.

he wants. . .

alador fights back the tears and slams his fist into the nearest wall, built of stone and dark wood.

the pain is shocking, cold and then hot as it races up his arm. he grits his teeth, snarling, and strikes again. another blow. more pain. something shifts in his knuckles. again. then again. then again. he punches and snarls and chokes down his tears until blood slicks his fingers and drips over the walls. until he cannot hold the fist any longer.

when he is finished, there is a fresh stain on the wall. there is blood on his knuckles and his teeth.

the walls watch. the windows do not spill light.

blight manor judges. and watches. and waits.

alador is a coward. alador is not strong. he suffers beneath the scrutiny and silently cleans himself up, water running red as he washes out the lacerations. the bandages are white. his knuckles are deep blues and blacks. there is something likely broken, but he does not care.

sitting by the fire, alador waits for odalia to return.

she breezes in an hour later, satisfaction oozing from every pore. her hair is perfect, her makeup precise, and the edge of her gaze is knife-sharp when she spots him. there is not a word spoken in greeting between either of them.

instead, odalia catalogues.

she notes the stiffness of his shoulders, the bruises beneath his eyes, the bandages on his fist. she notes the lingering stain upon the wall. quietly, she hums, and alador forces down seething, absolute _rage_ as his wife strides further into the room.

“you certainly seem to be in a mood, darling.” it’s mocking, low and cruel. “whatever are you so upset for?”

alador’s pulse quickens. his ears flush with rage. his fingers shake. “edric had to be taken to the infirmary last night.”

odalia freezes amid unpacking a soiled robe. “oh? whatever for.”

the hate builds. boils. “dryad cough, _darling_. it had reached a point he could barely breath. his fever was. . . remarkably high.”

slowly, she turns to face him. her eyes are wide, shocked. “is he quite alright?”

in her way, alador thinks his wife loves their children. but it is not enough. not in this moment. not when he can still hear his son gasping for air, can feel the heat melting his skin, searing his bones, boiling his child from the inside out.

“for now,” he seethes. “however, he would not have been in nearly such a state had you not dismissed morena’s concerns.”

odalia’s expression closes. her eyes sharpen, defensive, wary. “the girl is not a healer. she is _beneath us_. i thought her concerns unwarranted at the time.”

“you are not a healer either, odalia!” alador snaps, standing abruptly. “edric could have _died_ , do you understand that?! had morena not come to me when she did, had she not disobeyed _your_ order, he might not be here.”

the look she sends his way is positively toxic, and alador fights not to scream in anger. “the girl disobeyed a direct order, and you are angry with _me_?”

“yes!!” he explodes. “i am angry with you, odalia! titan below, edric is a _child_!! how could you disregard his health in such a way?!!”

odalia stiffens as he stalks closer, fingers tight and mouth curved in a snarl to match his own. “i made a judgment. his symptoms were not severe. the girl seemed to be overreacting.”

“ _morena!!_ ” alador howls. “she possibly helped save edric’s life, the very _least_ you could do is use her name!!”

“ _do not raise your voice at me_ ,” odalia hisses, and something cold wraps tight about his throat. “i made a mistake. and you have said yourself edric is fine. as for _the girl_ ,” she very pointedly does not say morena's name, fingers making a claw as the cold about his throat begins constricting, “she will be compensated appropriately.”

the anger begins to flood away. it is replaced by fear. odalia regards him like a particularly bothersome insect, something to be swatted. in the back of his mind, alador thinks to summon an abomination. but he cannot strike his _wife_. he cannot strike a woman of any station, much less one who is his equal.

instead, he draws upon what little of his dignity remains and refuses to cower. even as he gasps for air. even as tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes.

“thank you for bringing this to my attention, alador,” odalia says, and the pressure releases. “i have, perhaps, been negligent of the children. i will not make such a mistake in the future.”

alador refuses to gulp air like a commoner. he refuses to look weak in front of his wife. he remains upright, breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. he clenches his damaged fist and focuses on the white-hot burst of agony. it centers him. grounds him in the moment.

“be sure that you don’t,” he rasps.

with that, alador leaves the room.

he ignores the way his heart pounds. he ignores the way his vision tunnels. he ignores the urge to run, to scream, to vomit, to sprint to the nursery and flee with his children to a place no one may ever touch them again.

the fear is unwarranted.

odalia is their mother, and she would never hurt them purposely because she _loves them_ , even if it is not always apparent.

the fear is _unwarranted_.

~~but what if, his mind niggles, it isn’t?~~

~*O*~

alador blight thirty-six years old.

his youngest daughter contracts dryad cough in the night.

there are no panics, no flights to the infirmary, no raw fear to claw at the inside of his skull.

odalia has placed a healer on staff.

amity is fine, and the conflicted, frightened look in her eyes when odalia enters a room is nothing to worry about.

remember this – the lies are important, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the Insomnia Show! I'm your host Anxiety, and let me tell you, this bitch is wildin' tonight!
> 
> This one's a bit shorter than the others, and it's formatted a bit differently since it revolves around one singular point in Alador's life rather than multiple points. But I'm actually pretty proud about how this one turned out! Also Lily's here! And she's a sad dumb bitch! Who loves herself a baby!
> 
> I actually headcanon that even though Lilith is awkward with people her own age (and teens, apparently) she's pretty great with little kids. Like, they're just tiny people? Tiny cute people with big cheeks who like hugs, c'mon what's not to love? The lullaby she sings is to the tune of Davy Jones' theme from _Pirates of the Caribbean _. It's such a pretty melody, and I wanted to follow the sea theme for her I had going in previous chapters.__
> 
> _  
> _Anyway, I hope you guys enjoyed, and I hope to see you all in the next one!!__  
> 


	4. habromania

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "alador blight is thirty-seven years old. 
> 
> he protects his family.
> 
> remember that – he _protects _his _family _.____

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: there are descriptions of violence, kidnapping, dark-thoughts, and signs of mental unhealthy-ness ahead. Please be kind to yourselves!

**_habromania_ ** _: noun – delusions of happiness_

~*O*~

alador blight is thirty-seven years old.

he protects his family.

remember that – he _protects_ his _family_.

~*O*~

it is amity’s fifth birthday.

alador thinks this as he wakes in a bed that does not feel like home. he thinks this as he lays beside his wife, who is cold, and calculating and utterly incomprehensible at times. the words repeat in his head as he stares at the ceiling of his bedroom, and as the sun creeps over the horizon beyond his window, and even as he sits up to greet the morning.

it is amity’s fifth birthday.

and today will be _perfect_.

alador yawns, stretches. his joints pop more than they used to. he has acquired more aches, a few more pains. but the morning sun is warm, and the late-spring day promises to be perfect. it is ironic, he thinks, that his youngest was born in such a balmy season. warm and bright and full of life. the twins – who are boisterous and mischievous and oh-so-eager to get themselves in trouble – were born on the darkest day of the year. a day of magic, of shadows.

but amity? quiet, thoughtful, solemn amity, who doesn’t have a trickster bone in her body, is born in the season of the fae. the tricksters, and the faeries, and the sprites.

he is exhausted, and he wishes for nothing more than to roll away from odalia – who takes up a significant portion of their bed – and drift back into slumber. but there are things that need attending. measures to be put into place and attendees to vet prior to her party. there will only be five children, of that alador is sure.

one of which will be willow park, a quiet girl but sweet. a late bloomer, though amity adores her. her fathers are prominent members of the plant coven, not noble, but powerful in their own right. surely the child will grow into her own. the other children have been selected by odalia based upon lineage and influence. children of members from the emperor’s coven, the potions coven, the healing coven, and abomination coven. one child is even directly connected to the head of the bard coven, though odalia secretly scoffs at the inherent gentle nature of that particular sect.

there will be many attending, bodies crowding into this dark, cold manor and infecting his personal space.

the thought makes alador shudder.

odalia slumbers on as alador rises, shrugging into his thickest robe as the sun finally breaches the horizon. it illuminates the trees of the wood, sparkling off the sea. it’s going to be a beautiful day. a perfect day.

alador will make sure of it.

his routine every morning is the same. he wakes with the sun and does not rouse his wife. he enters the bathroom and begins his daily grooming routine. wash his face, then clean his teeth, then on to his hair. combed, oiled, styled neatly. he shaves last. sometimes, the gleam of the blade is too tempting.

sometimes, the feel of the edge is too much like odalia’s eyes.

it is no different today, and by the time alador finishes, the sun is beginning to warm the air. he finishes dressing and exits the bedroom. odalia is just waking, stirring under the heavy furs of their bed. he doesn’t bother with greeting her. he doesn’t bother with pleasantries.

instead, alador heads directly to the kitchen for breakfast. the children are already there, seated around the table as morena plates food, flitting around them like a songbird as she does so. edric is bright-eyed and happy. he chatters about nothing, far too excited for this early in the morning. emira is quieter, more reserved in her mannerisms, but she smiles and contributes regardless.

amity is solemn as usual. but there is a sparkle in her eyes, the barest hint of a smile around her cherubic little mouth, and the sight threatens to bring a smile to his own face.

“good morning, lord blight!” morena greets, skittish as a lark. “what can i offer you?”

the children cease talking. they look at him frankly, curiously, but with a blatant kind of distrust that twists in his stomach. it’s a numb kind of pain, a special sort of agony he has resigned himself to long ago. ever since that day in the forest with edalyn.

alador offers a nod – he does not smile. “good morning, morena. apple blood and toast will be adequate, thank you.”

he takes his seat at the head of the table. the seat to his right is empty, for odalia will not join them for several more minutes. to his left sits emira. she looks forward and picks at her breakfast – lesser-wyvern sausage, cockatrice eggs, and toast – hands small compared to her cutlery. morena continues to flit about. she places a bowl of porridge before amity, a small bowl of sugar to accompany it. amity thanks her quietly.

his youngest child has impeccable manners.

“papa, what’s the party gonna be like today?” edric questions, mouth full of eggs. “mittens doesn’t have any friends.”

. . . his son most patently does not.

“master edric!” morena gasps. “that was very unkind!”

alador fixes edric with a pointed stare, and he does not soften when the boy shrinks. “morena is correct, edric. that was very rude. amity has plenty of friends, and as a blight, you will be a polite, _gracious_ host. is that understood?”

thoroughly chastised, edric nods his little head and murmurs, “yes, sir.”

he does not make eye contact. beside him, emira reaches out to grasp her twin’s hand. there is a moment where alador feels guilt twist in him, the barest second where he wishes to gentle his tone and rebuke his son more softly.

morena places his breakfast before him. edric snorts at a quiet joke emira makes. amity, far too solemn for a new five-year-old, watches alador with curious eyes.

the moment passes.

“lord blight, when should i expect guests to begin arriving for the party?” morena asks, nervous as ever. “little amity has been terribly excited.”

“terribly excited” for amity isn’t nearly as apparent as with other children her age. however, he can see the bright-red blush over her face, the way her ears waggle happily when morena mentions guests. amity is not a child who makes friends easily. she is like him, in that regards, very particular about who she decides is worthy.

alador takes in the sight of excitement in his littlest girl and smiles despite himself. he glances at the clock. it is just gone eight.

“guests should begin arriving in one hour, morena, around nine,” he answers. “i expect ms. park shall be among the first to arrive.”

this time, amity’s excitement is plain for the world to see. it is evident in the ecstatic grin that spreads across her cherubic little face, in the way she munches on her porridge just _that_ much faster. edric and emira finish their breakfasts moments later. they ask to be excused simultaneously, egg still clinging to the corner of edric’s mouth and crumbs in emira’s hair.

morena, bless her, takes it all in stride. she flits in, sets the twins to rights, and flits away. quick, unbothered, and efficient. it is one of the things alador appreciates most about the nanny. though she is flighty and nervous, fragile as a butterfly wing, she is entirely unbothered by the whims and quirks of his children.

“i expect the both of you to be dressed in your play-clothes and in the foyer in time to greet the guests,” alador orders quietly, sipping at his apple blood.

“yes papa,” the pair responds in synchrony.

with that, they flee. not quite running – the no-running rule of the manor is strictly enforced – but moving quickly as they can get away with. alador allows them this trespass. he glances towards amity when he is sure she is not looking. his daughter munches away at her porridge, dainty but determined to finish, and he must smother a smile at the way her cheeks puff. her little legs swing back and forth, unable to touch the floor. a gentle rhythm.

he remembers doing that himself when he was smaller.

mother had enchanted a cane to smack his shins to break the habit.

they eat their food in companionable silence, only the sound of morena washing up to break the quiet. of his children, amity is most comfortable with his presence. the twins are. . . difficult. he no longer understands their mischief, their energy or their private jokes or their senses of humor. it is difficult to connect, though he loves them dearly. but amity reminds him intensely of himself: dedicated, focused, and quiet until she finally breaks from her shell. it makes connection easier. silences less awkward.

she also reminds him of another little girl from long ago, with eyes like the ocean and phoenix-fire curls. but that is a thought he keeps firmly locked away.

the sound of odalia’s heels on the polished floor arrives before she does. but arrive she does moments later, dressed in a pristine blue and grey dress. her emerald hair is swept into a bun. her makeup is flawless per usual. the line of her smile is smooth, more like a smirk, and it cuts like a blade.

like that, the comfort is ruined, and so is the silence.

amity shrinks under her mother’s cool “good morning” and focuses intensely on the last of her breakfast. alador takes a deep breath and squares his shoulder.

it is _amity’s_ birthday today.

everything will be _perfect_.

“good morning, lady blight,” morena warbles.

odalia cuts her gaze to the nanny, somehow staring down her nose at the taller woman. “toast, lightly browned, poached cockatrice eggs, and fresh juice.”

“right away, madame.”

morena immediately sets to work, and alador tucks his annoyance at odalia’s treatment of the staff deep into the recesses of his mind. today is not a day for petty grudges. today is amity’s day. his little girl is turning five, and she is _excited_ , and he will let nothing ruin this. not rudeness, not discomfort, not himself.

_nothing_.

“good morning, darling,” he greets, shoulders back as he sips on his apple blood.

“good morning, dearest,” odalia returns – she seems disinterested in him, eyes fixated on their youngest child. “good morning, amity.”

amity swallows thickly, eyes still fixed on the bowl in front of her. “good morning, mother.”

there are no pet names exchanged between odalia and their children, no shortened versions of mother that pass tiny lips. there are no exceptions. somewhere in his stomach, the balmy warmth of the spring morning sours.

they finish their breakfasts with no more words exchanged. the silence hangs between them like smoke, thick and cloying, suffocating. amity does her best not to fidget, but there are instances where she cannot help it. odalia does not let a single instance slide. the corrections are quick, sharp, and cold. no quarter is given. not even to the birthday girl.

their children are blights by birth, by status, and they shall carry their names ~~though the weight might shatter their tiny spines~~ with all the grace it deserves.

finally, mercifully, amity finishes her porridge. she asks to be excused ever-so-politely. her voice is tiny and quiet and she does not make eye-contact. odalia regards her for a long, eternal moment. alador takes pity.

“yes, amity, you may be excused. run along and dress for your party.” his voice is gentle as it can be, never cold. “your guests should be arriving shortly.”

amity nods. she slips from her chair, tiny head just barely bobbing over the edge of the table, and walks from the dining room. she does not rush. she does not dare in front of her mother.

and so alador is left alone with his wife.

“you coddle them, alador,” odalia scoffs.

a slow breath through the nose, followed by a long sip of his apple blood, and alador responds coolly. “i do not ‘coddle’ them, odalia. amity was perfectly polite in her manners, and today is her birthday. the twins had already finished and been excused by the time you arrived. there was no point in making amity sit alongside us on her birthday.”

a disapproving hum meets his answer. there are no more words. they return to the vacuum of silence, empty and abrasive. morena deposits odalia’s breakfast before her, bows her head, and disappears. preparations for the party are incredibly important, after all. at least, that is her excuse.

secretly, alador does not blame morena for her abandonment.

in her position, he would do the same.

he polishes off the last of his apple blood, glancing at the clock. eight-thirty a.m. excellent – there is time to do one final sweep of the manor before the party begins in full. though they have not had any recent. . . incidents, alador prefers to err on the side of caution. odalia is a master of her craft, and her bite is lethal as that of any serpent, but there are other monsters to watch out for in their circles. jackals and giraffes and ghouls with shadowed faces, who thirst for a status that is not theirs to hold. he and his wife can hold their own in any single-combat situation.

but their children are tiny. _vulnerable_.

alador excuses himself without another word, leaving his dishes and cutlery stacked neatly for the maids to collect before sweeping from the dining hall. he extends his magick through the soles of his feet, the tips of his fingers, and focuses. the walls of the manor are old, very old, and they respond with dark chuckles at his intrusion.

blight manor protects its own. but as far as the walls are concerned, anchored in magick and entirely without sanity, alador is a perfect stranger.

he is not a blight by birth. the halls do not recognize him, and they do not protect him without coaxing.

still, alador pushes. he observes and prods and scans, sending his magick through the wards until he feels a nudge at the back of his mind. it is not the children – he has felt them, bright warm lights tucked safely away in their play-room – and the new surge of poison green at the back of his retinas sends a thrill of fear through his system.

alador is not an illusionist, but he has been privy to the greatest and the secrets she keeps. there is _danger_ here. he will not let it harm his family.

today is amity’s birthday, and it will be _perfect_.

he follows the surge, through the labyrinth of hallways. left, right, then straight to the end of the corridor. he opens the door. terror, anxiety, rage; his mouth goes dry. his heart is pounding beneath his breastbone, and the green becomes so stark it washes everything in venom. in cold, dark poison that threatens to steal the breath from his lungs. his fingers are shaking but, still, alador moves forward.

amity’s birthday gifts, from friend and family alike, sit innocently atop heavy, dark tables. they shine with green light. cold light.

poison light.

something rustles in one of the gifts. the slither of dry scales, soft and whispering. the panic solidifies and alador summons an abomination.

“abomination, _seize_.”

the creature is soulless, mindless, and does as it is told with a groan of compliance. alador watches it brush through the gifts. he is careful in that this abomination does not stain the wrappings, solid as he can make it without compromising flexibility. it goes through gifts meticulously. one by one, scanning and gripping before setting them in the same position as before.

until it reaches a particularly innocuous box. it is not large, nor overly small. wrapped in shimmering blue paper and sitting ever so innocently until the abomination attempts to lift it, much in the same way a small, excited child might. the lid lifts. the emerald-cold-venom light grows blinding. alador blinks rapidly in an attempt to clear his vision, scrambles backwards with a panicked order of ”destroy!”

except there is a sizzling, his abomination dissolving into a useless puddle. and then there is the sound of scales along the floor, a heavy body slithering closer. closer. he blinks once more, stares intently towards the threat.

an asp returns the stare.

his heart rests like a stone in his gut. for an eternal moment, one that could have lasted no longer than a few seconds, he stares into the viper’s eyes. yellow and endless. _cruel_. it is a beautiful serpent, emerald scales and a thick, healthy body. cold creeps into his marrow.

_you are not the girl_ , it hisses into his subconscious in a voice of dried bones and stone. _we seek the girl. tiny, fragile. we are to eat her heart. drain her magick. **punish her.**_

amity.

tiny, fragile, precious amity.

_his daughter_.

alador feels the terror fill him, feels the rage swell in time with it. the asp hisses, fangs long and thick as a finger. instinct pushes him to bring his cloak up to shield his face. venom splashes against the material. it sizzles. it burns.

oh, titan’s wounds, _it burns_!

there is a roar that escapes his throat, and alador lashes out with all the magick roiling in his blood. it floods the room, a monstrous abomination erupting from the void to clutch the serpent between its massive hands. the creature hisses. its voice shrieks in his mind. loud, then louder, then louder, until alador can hear nothing but the panicked, furious death-throes of a creature that dared threaten his child.

his arm is alight with agony. there a smell of cooking meat on the air. alador pays it no heed.

instead, he watches the creature writhe. he commands his abomination with cold eyes and a dead heart and _twists_ until he can hear the voice fading, until he can hear the glorious sounds of bones snapping one. by. _one_. he twists and pulls and squeezes. his abomination makes no protest. and why would it?

his abominations are puppets. soulless. mindless. without conscience.

alador does not stop until his abomination holds nothing but a bloody, twisted tube of flesh and shattered vertebrae, ribs emerging between bits of meat and shredded scales. he breathes heavily. with a shaking command, the abomination descends back into the void, taking with it the corpse of a would-be killer.

for a moment, he stands there. the walls watch. they wait. they contemplate.

blight manor is entirely without sanity, and the madness it has witnessed is intriguing, he thinks.

the presents do not gleam emerald. they sit on their tables, waiting patiently for his little birthday girl to arrive and divest them of their treasures. innocent, beautiful things on dark wooden tables.

the flesh on his arm still sizzles. his cloak is ruined, and his hair is mussed. he still cannot seem to calm his racing pulse.

alador turns and flees the room.

later, as amity opens her birthday presents with a blinding grin, he will stand behind her, smiling gently but refusing to move his right arm from beneath a fresh cloak. it hides the bandages and a simple glamour masks the smell of acrid venom. the guests ask no questions. his wife’s eyes ~~yellow endless cold cruel~~ track each movement but she voices no concern.

and, if he wears compression bandages for the next several years, citing an old injury from working with an experimental abomination type, who is brave enough to call him a liar?

it is his daughter’s birthday. everything is perfect.

the blights are not to be taken lightly – it is something alador will make _sure of_.

~*O*~

alador blight is thirty-eight years old.

an assassin sneaks into his office. he is threatened with a poisoned blade, told he is unworthy of his title, of his power. he takes these things in stride.

the assassin laughs and says they will enjoy watching his bastard children cry. they name his children, one by one, and laugh as his face grows red. as his fists clench. as the panic swells in his throat and the hatred blossoms in his stomach.

alador ensures they never laugh again with a single, whispered command.

the next day, a headless corpse, crushed beyond recognition and covered in abomination clay, is discovered in bonesborough square.

alador does not bare sympathy for them. he carefully hides bruises and a wicked, seeping wound along his ribcage with a glamour charm gifted from his wife. the smell of poison follows him in a miasma. no one mentions these things, for why would they? he is the head of the abomination coven, a respected member of the community. surely it is none of their business to speculate.

not a soul suspects.

how could they – he is the picture of happiness. his children thrive, his coven grows more powerful by the day, his wife is beautiful, his name is great, he is _alador blight_ , and he –

the smile is false. his children think him a stranger. his wife is cruel and cold.

the hatred never quite leaves him, no matter how much he tries to banish it.

~*O*~

alador blight is thirty-nine years old.

emira is taken by a witch while out shopping with her mother. meant to be _watched_ , but it seems his wife took her gaze away for a moment. one moment too long, for now his daughter is gone. trapped. it feels as though his heart is stalling, and the familiar ache in his arm and along his ribcage worsening with each passing second.

emira is only nine years old old. nine years old and terribly brave, his eldest girl. her eyes are wet through the feed from the crystal ball, but her expression screams murder. he should be proud: she does not scream once. the kidnapper is wild and frothing, brandishing fire and threatening emira’s life if they do not meet his demands for compensation. alador does not know this man, nor does his wife. he is nameless, faceless, and he should be meaningless in the grand scheme.

but there is madness in his eyes, terrible and consuming, and a sick hatred builds in the pit of alador’s stomach once the connection is severed.

he wishes to contact the emperor’s coven for assistance.

the rage-fire stokes once more.

odalia violently objects – it is a stain on the blight family name to have a child kidnapped from beneath the matriarch’s nose. what _is_ he thinking?! she is poised and graceful, not one hair out of place or a smudge to her mascara to be found. but there is _fear_ in odalia’s eyes. true, stark fear as she watches their daughter tremble beneath a madman’s grip. pity wars with disdain in his heart.

edric has been neigh-on inconsolable. amity has watched from around corners, eyes wide and frightened, but she makes no sound. they are his children. his to mold, his to hold, his to _protect_. odalia, it seems, is not up to the task. and why should she be?

the hatred in his stomach congeals, hardens, and alador makes his choice.

he does not turn to the emperor’s coven. he does not rely solely upon himself, nor upon the newest abomination guards he has recently developed. stony, emotionless automatons which feed on outside magicks. creatures hard as steel but flexible as clay, with deep black eyes and fists that can crush a body without effort. his fingers shake and his creations are mindless. they do not have the capacity to carry out such a delicate mission.

no, alador turns to a singular witch. the _head_ of the emperor’s coven.

lilith clawthorne.

oddly, she is not perturbed by his sudden intrusion, though the hour is far past the time for polite company. instead, she welcomes him in, directs him to take a seat he does not accept. instead, alador observes. catalogues. there have been too many assassination attempts for him to do otherwise.

her chambers in the emperor’s castle are far larger than the meagre, sparse quarters he remembers. comfortable, spacious. there is a small seating area with a tea-station in the corner, a fireplace belching heat into the frigid stones around them. the furniture is comfortable and stylish, with dark wood and rich fabrics.

but it’s all strangely impersonal. there are no pictures on the walls, no knick-knacks to line the shelves. nothing that makes him think of lilith, who collected glass unicorns and sang to old folk tunes when she thought no one was listening. who brewed potions with a fervor that bordered along manic and never failed to bundle in three or more blankets at a time. this room is bare and sterile and. . . _lonely_.

alador clenches his jaw, his fists, and takes a breath to steady himself. there is something fighting the hatred, threatening to snuff it out. a deep ache that settles in his bones like frost, like venom. they stand separated by years and glass, and he, like the family crystal ball, cracks under pressure. lilith’s shoulders are taut, spine impeccably straight and hands folded before her abdomen.

she still smells of lilac after all these years.

“lord blight, what can i do for you at such an hour?” lilith says, polite and professional, as though they are mere colleagues.

he ignores how the slight galls him, how it makes his heart bleed. “i have a favor to ask of you, my lady. a rather large one, i’m afraid.”

lilith quirks a brow at him, sardonic, and drawls, “oh? and who are you to be asking me for favors? surely the abomination coven can take care of its affairs internally?”

they can, and he does, and she is not wrong. alador knows this. he has no right to be asking favors of her. standing in this cold room, frosted under her clinical stare, alador cannot help but ponder the what-ifs and maybes. he is not a young man. he is not the boy who once stalked the wild wood, nor is he the boy who danced under the stars in a clearing with her. nor even is he the man who danced with her in front of the emperor’s coven, so close yet so far.

and, still, here he stands.

“my eldest daughter has been kidnapped by a man claiming to have been wronged by the blight family.” the words taste of bile, raw and acid on his tongue. “i require your help in retrieving her safely. _discreetly_.”

lilith’s expression morphs, and suddenly he is staring at _his_ lilith, the one who shared her sister’s hurts and shared treenut butter bars with him during a bad day at school. her ocean eyes are wide, horror-struck for all of a second before settling into resolve. there are maelstroms in her eyes, tempests full of waves and crashing thunder, and may the titan help all who get in her way.

or in this case, perhaps not.

“what do you need me to do?”

and like that, they are a team once more.

alador and lilith.

warlock and witch.

the great and the just.

the kidnapper told him of a meeting place. stated he wanted jewels, snails, deeds, _power_. things that are tangible and heavy and well within the means of the blight family to give. greed is a sickness, alador thinks, a disease that rots a body faster than any poison.

it’s a gamble, their plan. everything hinges on his ability to coax emira away from the man, his ability to use words to his advantage. the moon is barely a sliver in the sky, and the air is black and oily, thick in his lungs. a cold wind shudders down his spine though it is mid-summer. the hatred in his bones feels like a sickness, too.

still, he allows himself to burn.

he waits in seclusion, at the mouth of a cavern system near the ribs. a wild, dangerous place. there are eyes on him, and they are not those of flutter-faeries between branches. they are dark, old things, watching and waiting for the blood to spill.

alador does not wait long.

the madman appears, eyes rolling and so wide in his sockets the whites gleam. emira is clutched under one arm, a blade to her tiny throat. there is a bruise darkening along her cheek. the hatred hisses. the rage burns. fear sours in his heart.

alador raises an eyebrow and gestures to the sack in his hand.

“i’ve brought what you’ve requested,” he calls, tone measured. “release my daughter, and you may have it.”

the witch giggles, and emira wrinkles her nose in disgust. he’s far too close. there is dirt and decay wrought all about him, grime and debris in his matted hair, and how _dare_ this _filth_ touch his daughter?! disgust brings a whole new flavor to his emotions. still, alador wears his mask, and doesn’t flinch when long, disgusting fingernails grip emira’s pale cheeks.

“how’d ya get here so fast?!” the man demands. “what’d ya bring?!”

alador answers calmly, saying, “my staff is rather quick. wolves are territorial concerning family, you see. and we’ve brought jewels, deeds to various properties. all is as you asked.”

this one is twitchy, impulsive. he does not ask him to discard his staff, nor requests there be no abominations created. honestly, this man should be the least threatening kidnapper he has seen. the others were calculated, calm despite their obvious wish for death.

this one though. . . this one is unpredictable. he mutters and sways, gripping emira far too tightly one moment, then near lax the next. alador finds himself worrying as he watches. the blade is gripped expertly, and there is little risk of an accidental injury it seems. but there’s just _something_ in his eyes that leaves alador unsettled.

“release my daughter, please,” he says. “i’ve done as you’ve asked.”

it is quiet, firm, but polite.

those eyes dart from him to the bag. the man grips emira’s hair, pulls on her head like one might a doll. this close, alador can see the stark fear on her face, the way her hands shake and her lip trembles, pupils blown wide. she is a child, _his child_.

no one will harm her here.

“no guards?!” the kidnapper barks. “y’brought no one else?!”

alador does not look at the shadows atop the cave mouth. alador does not look at the silhouette, lithe and elegant as it stalks closer, gaining prime position. he focuses on nothing but those eyes. dark and mad and roving in their sockets.

“i’ve brought no one else,” he agrees. “now – my daughter for the jewels. you are a man of your word, are you not?”

it seems to strike a chord, and the grip on emira finally, _finally_ , releases completely. alador tosses the bag a fair distance between them. the man shoves emira away, fevered eyes locked onto the bag. but then he sees the stones, plain and dark amongst the cloth. the rage on his filthy face is incandescent, nearly unnatural. fear clutches alador’s heart in a vice. emira isn’t far enough away. the knife is too close.

everything is _too close_ and his _daughter_ isn’t _safe yet_.

“ _now_!” he roars.

a circle erupts from alador’s fingertips, and an abomination sweeps emira into its arms seconds later with an unholy shriek. the man snarls, wordless, a gut-wrenching mad howl that sounds more beast than witch. the blade raises. it gleams in a sliver of light provided by the moon.

flames erupt from the darkness, blinding and brilliant. sapphire in color. colossal in size. infernal in heat. they consume the witch before he even has time to take a step.

alador sprints forward and snatches emira from his abomination, clutching her body close to his chest. the creation tries to shield them both from the heat. it is blistering, blinding, and the flesh along his arms and neck feels singed.

he does not listen to the almighty shriek of agony that erupts from within the blaze. he does not pay heed to the scent of charred flesh, then ash, then crisped hair. he ignores the way his ears ring and his flesh burns.

all that matters is emira. tiny, shaking, emira, who clutches to him so tightly it seems she may never let go again.

he clings right back, runs a hand through her hair. she sniffles and cries into his neck like she did so many years ago as a toddler. such a brave, beautiful girl.

“alador?! is she injured?!”

lilith sounds worried, but not frantic, and alador turns to face her. her dark navy dress has nary a wrinkle, and the cloak about her shoulders protected against the acrid smoke about them. not one soul spares a glance to the pile of charred ash and bone-chips mere feet away.

he smiles even as the rage burns and licks at the inside of his heart. “no, thank the titan. emira, dove, are you alright? he didn’t hurt you did he?”

emira sniffles, hiccups, and refuses to lift her head. but she manages to whimper out a quiet, “he pulled my hair, papa. it _hurt_.”

he shushes her. squeezes back gently, even though it feels as though his child is attempting to wring the air from his neck. there are going to be bruises, he can tell, and her grip is agonizing against his sensitive skin. but he does not begrudge the little one. she is small and frightened.

“i know, little dove,” he whispers. “but i’ve got you now. nothing and _no one_ will ever hurt you again.”

finally, emira lifts her head to look at him. her eyes are red-rimmed, teary. there is snot dripping from her nose. her ears are pinned.

“you promise?” she asks, voice small, hesitant.

it breaks his heart.

alador smiles regardless, presses a kiss to her over-warm forehead. “i promise.”

promises are sacred things, he has found. they can harm, or they can heal. they can rend or mend. but they are sacred, and this is one such promise he will keep. tucked safe and warm like a child next to his heart.

emira burrows back against his neck, trembling from the stress of her ordeal. alador allows it, holds her closer and raises his gaze to lilith again. he sees the sea, roiling and powerful, the fury of the tides and the anguish of sailors. both his body and his heart freeze.

“thank you, lilith,” he says, exhausted and grateful. “how can i repay you?”

lilith’s expression crumples a bit. her grip on her staff tightens, and alador cannot breathe for the stones lying in his lungs. he is tired. he is angry. he is in pain and _exhausted_.

and all he wants to do is wrap himself around lilith and never let her go again.

she smiles, beautiful as always. her eyes and his heart cry. “take the little one home and keep her safe. that will be payment enough, i think.”

for a moment, they stand there, separated by years and frosted glass. lost in the what-ifs and could’ve-beens and maybes. it’s a dull pain. a self-induced ache that leaves a hole in his heart.

then emira lifts her head once more, barely able to hold her little eyes open any longer. “thank you for saving me, ms. clawthorne.”

it’s quiet and polite, just slurring as the child drifts towards an exhausted sleep. but it breaks the glass. lilith’s smile grows warmer, more genuine, and she steps forward to catch emira’s eye.

“you’re very welcome, little one.” lilith answers. “i’ll see you and your father home, alright? you must be tired.”

his daughter does not smile, but she nods, and alador watches with a dry mouth as lilith runs a hand over the top of her head. her gaze is soft as a feather, touch light as it grazes over emira’s crown. she manages a soft smile. it fractures like the glass between them. she is close, so close he can smell lilac and almonds over charred flesh and feels the warmth of her skin. it’s like a balm; he has been cold for so long.

and then she steps away.

the ice and venom flood his bones once more.

“we’d better leave,” lilith says, wind in tree branches. “come on – i’ll escort you back to blight manor.”

against his shoulder, emira shudders, fully asleep and still thoroughly terrified. alador’s heart thunders on, a desperate tattoo against his breastbone. his stomach is roiling. he feels. . . he doesn’t know how he feels. there is hatred and fury and despair and hopelessness and. . .

emira shifts, sighs, and huddles closer.

warmth floods his chest. he holds his little girl closer. there is no more hesitation. this place is dark, desolate, and smells of charred bones. there is nothing left for him here, nothing to pay even half a mind to.

he situates himself and emira atop maia and follows lilith into the night sky. he watches slivers of lavender light catch in her dark hair, traces the line of her shoulders. she is silent and beautiful.

when they reach the manor, when lilith flies away with ice in her eyes and broken mirrors between them, he does not call out. he does not hold her tight.

alador is a blight, now, and he is a coward.

he lets her go.

~*O*~

alador blight is forty years old.

his family poses for a portrait.

they are proud, and they are regal, and they look every inch the aristocrats they are born to be.

guests comment on how handsome his children are. how talented. how poised. how graceful. they note their immaculate clothes and their high marks and their well-spoken manner. odalia gushes over their children as though they are a personal accomplishment. as though she gives encouragements. as though she does more than offer cold looks and scathing remarks to each child when they fail to meet her expectations.

they do not see the tears in amity’s eyes when her otabin plush was taken on the eve of her seventh birthday. they do not see emira’s quiet, steady resignation when faced with her mother’s ire for gaining less than perfect marks on a test. they do not see edric shrink in on himself when he comes in from a day of playing, flush with excitement and covered in dirt, stating that he found new friends.

amity is too old for otabin plushes. toys are for infants and slackers, and she is a blight.

emira is too talented for a less than perfect mark. perfect grades reflect perfect children, and she is a blight.

edric is not to play with hooligans his parents do not know. they are negative influences on a shining, greater child, and he is a blight.

they are _blights_ , and they will fit odalia’s mold even if she has to shave away the greatest parts of them to do so.

alador blight is forty years old.

and he has watched his youngest child cry herself to sleep on her eighth birthday over the loss of her best friend. willow park is a bright girl, kind and precocious, and she is a late bloomer. her magick does not seem to fit her tiny body. it comes in gasps and sputters and odd, explosive bursts that make the earth around them shudder. she is not perfect, and her name is not old, and odalia has deemed her unworthy.

alador remembers the years of his childhood. he remembers keeping his friends a close, tight secret, kept locked in the space between his ribs where mother could not see and father could not reach. amity does not have such defenses. odalia picks her apart, breaks her down, and in the end willow park leaves their party in a flurry of tears. amity is left to play with two other girls they have selected for her. they are from prominent families with encouraging signs of early talent.

odalia is pleased.

but the only thing alador can focus on is the sound of his daughter’s heartbroken, gut-wrenching sobs.

the cold has seeped into his bones, and the black, seething contempt he feels for his wife deepens with each passing day. he hates this house with its mad walls and this name with its heavy burden. he hates his wife with her cold, unrelenting serpent’s eyes.

he hates this.

still, alador smiles, and says he is happy.

he is a blight.

he is great, and powerful, and he will shoulder the burden of his name without complaint.

~~the ice in his heart deepens when his children no longer call him “papa”. and why should they? he is a stranger with their eyes and scars hidden behind fine silks, and he does not protect them as he should.~~

~*O*~

alador blight is forty years old.

he gives an exclusive interview to perry porter for a report on the abomination coven. his son, small and wide-eyed with wonder in the background, does not receive a second glance. he is regal and taciturn, economical in his responses.

when asked about his family, he smiles.

“i have everything a man could ask for. i’ve been very fortunate in my position as leader of the abomination coven. my wife and her colleagues in the illusion coven are flourishing. my children are healthy and happy. what more could i ask of the titan?”

the smile pulls and _burns_ and it feels as though he has daggers embedded in the corners of his lips.

perry smiles back, the poor fool. “you and your wife have been the talk of the social-scene as of late. the blights are certainly making a name for themselves. how do you two take the time for yourselves? it must be difficult to juggle both coven responsibilities and parenting with having a personal life.”

the truth is that they do nothing of the sort. his wife is cold, and she is cruel, and the space between them in bed is a veritable chasm. they speak in clipped sentences and polite passive-aggressive threats. alador is considered weak, and odalia is considered spiteful, and they do not engage if they do not have to. it is easier that way.

the truth is alador buries himself in his work so he does not have to return to the cold. to the judgmental halls and the maddened stones that form them. he does not juggle responsibilities as a parent because his children barely know him. they call him father, watch him with wary eyes from across the expanse of an oak dinner table. they take two meals together a day. he disciplines them when odalia deems necessary.

he loves his children. he loves emira with her headstrong independence, and edric with his devil-may-care spirit, and amity with her quiet, steady passion.

but alador is a product of his own cowardice, and so he loves them from afar.

alador answers with practice borne from years of training in politics. he circles, stating it’s a difficult task, that they take turns, that he and his wife have a “great platform of communication” and continues in that vein until perry is nodding enthusiastically and moving on to the next question.

his smile is a permanent fixture.

and alador tries – titan how he _tries_ – to not let the venom win this time. he thinks on amity’s smile as she finally summoned her first proper abomination. he thinks of edric’s stories, told in apparent secrecy to his sisters, coupled with fledgling illusions that bounce off the walls of the former nursery. he thinks on how emira giggles with her friends, true friends that she found on her own, and how she holds her siblings together with a strength that he lacks. his children are happy, it seems.

his children are happy, and they are strong, and they are _safe_.

so alador sits before perry porter and his crystal ball, smiling and happy along with them.

he is happy.

he _must be_.

right?

~~later, he will catch sight of a pair of ocean-blue eyes as lilith approaches for her own interview, and the ice in his heart expands. he thinks back to nights spent under the stars and a lullaby for a sick boy and a rescue mission conducted in the dead of the night. later, he will see her, and in his heart, he’ll speak a truth.~~

~~the truth never meets the world.~~

~*O*~

alador dreams.

he dances in the forest with his wife, twisting and swirling to the light notes of a waltz. her warmth is blazing, and her eyes sing, and his smile feels as though it could be a permanent fixture. their children run between the trees. they are playing.

his eldest chases the others, his son scooping his littlest up in his arms as they dodge their sister’s mock-clawed grasp. they whoop and holler and do not worry about such things as dirt or sweat or stains. they are happy. their smiles light the air.

“what are you smiling for?” she asks, and her laughter rings like silver bells.

“you’re perfect,” alador returns, a thumb stroking over the back of her delicate knuckles.

he knows this scene. it has happened so many times before. an infinite loop locked in the bright stars dying between his ribs. all things end in this loop, this routine.

but he is unwilling to let her go. not here. not this way.

so he keeps dancing. holds her close as he did not have the strength to so many years ago. they dance. their children play. the air is warm, and the moon shines kindly overhead. everything is perfect.

alador presses his forehead to hers, breathes her in. “you’re perfect. _this_ is perfect. and i love you. . . _so much_.”

lilith’s smile is sad, and her hand leaves his shoulder to caress his cheek. they sway in the middle of the trees. around them, the air goes quiet. no yelling, no laughter, no music. not even a flutter-faerie. her eyes hold the ocean. tempests and lightning and gentle waves that lap the beach.

this is different. the scene has changed. he doesn’t know what to make of that.

alador trembles. “i love you, and i’m a _coward_.”

“i know, my dearest.” she strokes her thumb along his cheekbone.

there are tears falling. his shoulders buckle. he holds her _so tight_. too tight.

“i’m so sorry. please forgive me. _please_.”

this time, lilith says nothing. she shushes him gently. cups his face in both hands. she leans up to kiss him. . . .

alador jolts awake in a cold bed, silken sheets and heavy furs, staring at the ornately carved canopy overhead. it is the same routine. the same moment. and his heart _hurts_ , and he wants this to end so badly. it is only fitting, he supposes.

odalia does not stir next to him.

alador stares at the carvings, wraps himself in furs, and returns to the forest. he runs away to that perfect clearing, where her eyes are bright as a summer day and his children have her smile. alador is good at running away.

he is a coward, after all.

~*O*~

lilith clawthorne jolts awake with tears in her eyes.

_“i love you_ ,” he had whispered, “ _and i’m a coward._ ”

_“i’m so sorry. please forgive me. **please**_.”

she clutches the sheets to her chest and cries. bitter, angry tears that burn their way down her face.

she does not deserve apologies. she does not deserve dreams of dancing with alador in their forest, surrounded by children with his eyes and her smile. she deserves her isolation, her loneliness, her misery. a monster does not deserve beautiful things like his smile or his touch.

and yet she is such a greedy little beast.

lilith rolls to her side, clutches her sheets, and weeps.

all she’d wanted was a kiss.

they always break the illusion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I return late with Starbucks, RavenBlight, and a healthy dose of angst that borders on cruelty. 
> 
> I would apologize. . . but I don't really feel like it at the moment.
> 
> Truly, though, thank you all for sticking with me this long. I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	5. sarang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "alador blight is forty-two years old. 
> 
> his youngest child is talented and brilliant, but she requires extra guidance that he cannot provide.
> 
> someone else makes a proposition. 
> 
> remember this – it is the beginning of the end."

**_sarang_ ** _(v): the feeling of wanting to be with someone until death_

~*O*~

alador blight is forty-two years old.

his youngest child is talented and brilliant, but she requires extra guidance that he cannot provide.

someone else makes a proposition.

remember this – it is the beginning of the end.

~*O*~

the annual covention has become the bane of alador blight’s existence.

as a child, he thought the myriad stalls and brightly colored banners, the free totes and delicious foods, were all based in generosity. a way for the covens to give back to those witches they serve. he had looked upon the demonstrations in wonder and strove to be something equally great.

now, he sees the truth. covens are greedy things, gluttonous systems that eat and eat and eat until they have gorged themselves on magick and continue to do so ad infinitum. they do not care about the wonder-struck children or their dreams. they do not care about the possibility of greatness.

covens want bodies. they want magick. they want to feast and consume and nothing more.

so he organizes the booths and the trinkets to be dispersed. he coordinates the demonstrations, filled with new, improved abominations and different books on how to develop void-clay. he smiles, and he dictates, and he pushes his patience to its barest edge. for the improvement of his coven. for the improvement of his station. he waves sweets and power and dreams of glory before tiny faces with their star-stricken eyes, and he feeds the beast.

alador hates coventions.

but his children love them. because they are children, and, in their eyes, the world is still a place filled with wonder and good-intentions and dreams. he does not take that from them, _will_ not take that from them. it is the least he can do, after all.

it is a rare occasion when he can attend a covention for himself. so alador treasures the rare moment he can spend with his children. odalia is unable ~~unwilling, more likely~~ to divest herself of her responsibilities for the day. there are no servants to attend them, no guards or abominations to distract. it is just him and his children.

the task is exhausting, daunting, and _wonderful_.

alador is unaccustomed to being given orders by anyone save the emperor himself. it is bemusing, having little hands reach out and tug him here, there, and yonder. edric is quick to visit the tiny-cat coven. he coos over tiny kittens with soft paws and his smile is bright, near-blinding. emira rolls her eyes and scoffs. amity pretends she is aloof as her sister, but alador can see her very gently pet a tiny brown kitten on its soft head, a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth.

they float between stalls, the twins leading the way, chattering excitedly in a language all their own. alador is a quiet presence behind them, an observer more than a participant. emira is interested in oracles, beast-keepers, illusions, weapons. edric is drawn to plants, potions, bards, illusions (much like his twin), baking. their smiles are bright, and laughter boisterous.

amity seems. . . rather disinterested by the whole ordeal. she is polite. she answers when spoken to, remains attentive through demonstrations, remembers her “pleases” and “thank yous” to the adults around them. but there is no spark. nothing that lights her tiny face in awe as the other children have done.

his youngest is a quiet thing, withdrawn and reserved, especially after their dismissal of her friend willow. the thought makes his heart ache.

alador despises coventions – but this one he is determined to use advantageously.

after an hour or so of browsing, they come across a group of edric and emira’s friends. his eldest are invited to join by loose-boned children with easy smiles, the gleam of fae mischief apparent in their faces and illusion blues along their limbs. he does not miss the wariness in their expressions, though, nor the way their eyes dart from his face to the twins in apprehension. they are frightened. these are children frightened _of him_.

the thought makes the happiness in his stomach sour.

“why don’t you two go with your friends?” alador offers, quiet and neutral. “you’re old enough to take care of yourselves, i should think.”

edric leaps at the chance, his son’s eyes bright as a star.

emira is hesistant. frightened. she gnaws her lip and looks between him and the small group of pre-teens before them. alador feels the rage-fire stoke, chewing at the walls of his heart like a rat. she is twelve years old and still has not forgotten the touch of a man long dead, with rolling eyes and a rambling voice.

secretly, privately, he wishes lilith had not been so efficient in her spellwork. the beast should have _suffered_. . .

but this is not the moment for anger, and a blight does not regret. alador instead smiles and nods, a silent reassurance. it is not often his children take comfort in his presence but if he can just do _this one thing_ , everything will be worthwhile.

emira’s shoulders relax. she is engulfed in the group of friends seconds later, gangling arms wrapped in an infinite loop around each other. they melt into the throng moments later, though he can still hear their voices. and, like that, alador is left alone with amity.

he turns to look at her, a faint smile still firming his lips. “now, where shall we go next, little one?”

his youngest daughter is nearly ten now. gone is the curious, chubby-faced girl who loved otabin so dearly and had a laugh that could split stone at a dozen paces. in her place is a solemn, gangly child. she is petite and pretty, but so very serious. it would be humorous if alador did not know where it stemmed from.

amity contemplates his words for a moment, glancing around the covention hall before her eyes finally settle on a destination. they widen, more expressive than they had been all day, and she says, “can we go visit the abomination booth, papa?”

the familiar name strikes him squarely in the heart. alador cannot suppress his smile, and he nods.

“lead the way, my treasure.”

his youngest is solemn and contemplative, but the excitement on her face is palpable. she grasps his hand tightly between her own without thought. alador says nothing – it is the first time in a long time she has allowed him to hold her hand at all – and follows without complaint. the crowds are monstrous. billowing, swarming, full of bodies that press in on all sides. it makes him anxious. his head is. . . how would his newest recruits put it? on a swivel? that seems right.

alador is not complacent in keeping his children safe. the scars beneath his fine clothing are testament to this.

nevertheless, he endures. he suffers without complaint because amity is a _child_ , and she deserves to experience something that makes her happy.

he protects his children from outside threats, but it seems he cannot keep them safe in his own home. what a despicable notion.

they arrive at the demonstration for the abomination coven in mere minutes. octavius is giving a demonstration on their newest techniques for creating malleable abominations. the young man is one of his newer members. but he is clever and quick on his feet, and his beaming smile has charmed all the members of the audience without effort.

the abomination on display, controlled by a brilliant magenta ring about his wrist, twists off its head and begins to toss it about. a new head forms. it joints the first, followed by a third. soon, the abomination is juggling three heads while re-growing a fourth, much to the delight of the younger members of the audience. as he commands the abomination, octavius goes through different aspects of life in the abomination coven, different career paths the children could choose. research, development, security, teaching opportunities. wide, varied aspects of study with multiple applications for the magick demonstrated.

next to him, amity watches with wide-eyed fascination. her big honey-gold eyes are fixated, sparkling with wonder. alador feels his own smile form in response.

“papa, is that what you do?” amity whispers, squeezing his fingers just the barest amount. “do you make abominations like that all day?”

alador crouches to be closer to her level and to make his frame less conspicuous; octavius is charming and competent, but he is terribly frightened by authority. seeing the leader of the coven in his audience would likely cause him. . . issues.

“not exactly. i’m the head of the coven. my responsibilities are different than octavius’s.”

his answer is carefully crafted to make her think, to question, and it works like a charm.

amity frowns. “how are they different?”

“as leader of the coven, it is my job to make sure everyone else is doing their job correctly. i look over the different sections and see which ones can be improved upon. sometimes, i help to develop new abominations like this one. other times, i am working in the emperor’s castle to see how our coven can work efficiently with others. and still others, i am visiting schools to look over their curriculum in abomination studies.”

amity forehead creases in thought. it is an adorable expression. “that’s because the abomination track is based on the work your coven does, right?”

alador’s smile widens further. “exactly! we have to make sure the students are getting the best, most accurate information possible, so they can study and grow to be productive members of the community.”

a sage nod is his response, and alador must stifle a chuckle as amity begins to cycle through questions ever-so-seriously. “but then how are abominations supposed to help people? they’re just big, dumb clay people, right?”

their conversation continues like that for a long while, nearly fifteen minutes in fact. it’s a delight, being able to connect with one of his children in such a way, and alador feels as though sunshine has been injected into his veins for all the warmth it brings. amity is clever and precocious, and her curiosity is refreshing. she asks pertinent questions, trying to discern where exactly his work fits in the grand scheme. he is more than happy to oblige her curiosity.

eventually, though, the demonstration ends. octavius bows out, sweat glimmering on his brow, and the abomination cowers into the void. the crowd dissipates, bodies swirling about them once more, and alador feels the hair on his nape stand upright. he returns to full height.

“well, it seems the fun is over here,” he sighs. “is there anything else you wish to see, amity? any other booths that have caught your interest?”

biting her lip, amity glances about them once more. cataloguing, searching. eventually, though, she lands on something else that makes her brighten.

“can we go see the emperor’s coven demonstration, papa?! they’re supposed to be having a high-ranking member visit!”

the thought makes his stomach revolt. all he can think of is blue. blue like the ocean, like the summer sky, like ice on a lake in mid-winter. but amity is so. . . _open_ , so enthusiastic about the prospect. she has not hesitated in asking him questions, nor in grasping his hand. he does not wish to deny her such a small favor.

alador swallows, forces his smile to remain in place. “of course, my treasure. come along then – we’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

a true smile lights amity’s face, and she tugs him forward towards the theatre. alador cannot suppress a chuckle, though the knots in his stomach do not release. he tries to focus on the warmth of his daughter’s hand in his, the brightness of her smile, her excited chatter as they are waived into the crowded theatre seating.

it is a crush of bodies, many of them excited children and teenagers, and the crowd makes alador’s skin crawl. he reaches forward to grasp amity’s shoulders. she glances at him, blinking with wide eyes, but does not flinch from him as she does her mother. gently, he steers them to a relatively open area and takes a seat, placing amity in front of him. he catalogues the faces around them, looks for shifting expressions and shady characters. there are none.

still, alador does not relax.

he cannot remember the last time he truly relaxed.

“who do you think is gonna do the demonstration, papa?!” amity gasps, eyes fixed on the stage as principal bump strides into the spotlight.

“i don’t know, little one,” is his reply. “perhaps we should wait and see, hmm?”

there are no more questions, nothing but a nod as amity fixates on the weathered face of his old high-school principal. alador cannot hold back a chuckle at her rapt expression. for such a stoic child, his youngest can be terribly expressive, and her quirks never fail to make him smile. he places a hand atop her head and follows her line of sight.

still, as the lights dim, he keeps an eye out for any unexpected movement or subtle reflections.

“ladies, gentleman, people of unspecified gender!!” bump crows, and his rough voice crackles through the mic. “it is my greatest pleasure to present to you the _jewel_ of the coven system! put you hands together for the _emperor’s coven!!_ ”

it is theatrical, but not elegant, and alador cannot help but roll his eyes as three hooded figures emerge from a burst of smoke.

he remembers his own first attempts at putting together a demonstration for coventions. one must sacrifice subtlety for dazzle without compromising information. the speech cannot be overlong for risk of causing exhaustion or boredom. but the information contained must be given thoroughly. it is a difficult balance to achieve. one can miss the mark.

the emperor’s coven missed the mark.

oh, sure, they are flashy. the flames, water, and lightning they create are brilliant bits of magick. bump continues to narrate with feigned excitement. the information is concise, but not over-simplified. but there’s no _spark_. there’s nothing personal for the children to connect to. nothing to make them say, “ _this_ is my coven. _this_ is where i belong” and it shows in the dimming excitement on amity’s face.

“and now for this year’s mystery guest,” bump announces. “you know her! you love her! _lilith!_ ”

alador’s heart leaps, then sinks, and finally settles somewhere between his mouth and his sternum. the auditorium is filled with blue light, warm and encompassing as it forms the great likeness of a raven, and it spreads its wings before exploding in a shower of bubbles.

and in the raven’s place? lilith, wreathed in a white cloak and radiating energy.

it is a display that makes all the children gasp with delight, his daughter included. alador cannot breathe. he hasn’t seen her in nearly two years, save for the occasional glimpse in the emperor’s castle. he focuses on nothing but the light in her eyes, so blue even from this distance. but she is not the same as the lilith he once knew. she strides across the stage confidently, shoulders squared and voice even. her hair is navy and falls over her the straight line of her spine in a waterfall. her words do not matter, though they have amity utterly transfixed. all he can see is confidence and ice and _power_ , unwavering as a cliffside. it’s so. . .

his lilith was powerful, yes, but in a much different way. her magick was not as strong as edalyn’s but her heart was of steel. she was confident in quiet spaces but shrank under intense scrutiny. crowds never failed to make her reach for his hand, and her shoulders had always hunched on themselves in unfamiliar territory, hands folded demurely before her chest. hers was a quiet strength, a warm strength that emerged like summer rain. he’d always drawn comfort from that.

this lilith is cool and composed and. . . _icy_. cold. it makes him horrifically sad.

the demonstration is ending. he has missed nearly all of it, too fixated on the set of her shoulders and the confident motion of her hands. voices have dissolved into muffled static. he swallows.

bright blue eyes meet his own. those have not changed, at least – they still hold the sea. and lilith fumbles. they blink at each other for a second that lasts eternity. then she returns to her presentation, turning a blinding smile to the crowds of enraptured children around her.

“be more!” she calls, hands lighting with sapphire flames. “the emperor’s coven awaits you!!”

light explodes before them. bright and all-encompassing. alador blinks spots from his vision, hand clenching reflexively on amity’s thin shoulder. panic swells behind his sternum. the spots retreat. amity looks at him in question, almost fearful.

lilith is gone.

“papa? are. . . are you alright?” amity questions. “did you not like the presentation?”

alador swallows. his chest feels empty. the stars are being snuffed one by one, like old sputtering candles in a gale.

he smiles at his youngest. “it was impressive, was it not? the emperor’s coven never fails to disappoint.”

~~except he never sees lilith’s true smile anymore and he knows she is surrounded on all sides by liars and cretins and cowards like him and she always seems so _exhausted_ and he just wants to feel warm again, that’s all, and now he thinks that these covens are large, pretty cages with perks for their prisoners and sometimes when he sleeps he watches her cry on that summer morning and sees the emperor’s hands wrap around lilith’s throat and **squeeze** and - ~~

amity lights up once more, and it has been so terribly long since his child has felt this comfortable in his presence. alador refuses to spoil such a gift.

“ms. clawthorne is _amazing_ , papa! she studied on the potions track but she makes illusions almost as good as _mother’s_!! she’s so cool!!” sudden fear shoots through amity’s features, and she stares up at him with owl-eyes. “oh, papa, don’t tell mother i said that, please! she’ll be. . .”

he knows _exactly_ what she means, and the fear on her face rips through his chest. alador squeezes her shoulder gently. “not to worry, little one, i know what you meant. ms. clawthorne is quite powerful; you’d do well to follow in her footsteps.”

they begin to exit the auditorium. at his side, amity chatters and debates with him about the pros and cons of the emperor’s coven. she’s such a _bright_ little thing. the way her mind works is a mystery to him, but alador would not trade the shine of her eyes or the slight stammer to her words for anything. her hand is warm where it clasps his own.

“alador?”

it’s tentative, questioning, but the familiar cadence makes alador freeze in place. he is surrounded by voices both young and old, familiar and foreign.

but _this_ voice he will always know. because it was the one that told edalyn off for being too loud, that congratulated him on perfect scores and comforted him after a bad day. it was the voice that sang while they played between the trees and hummed while they danced in the moonlight, the one that whispered “ _i love you_ ” against his lips in soft secrecy. it was the voice that laughed in silvered chimes and shattered him with cold indifference.

alador turns, smiles, and ignores the blood rushing in his ears. “ms. clawthorne?”

lilith is surrounded by a throng of children, each staring at her in awe-struck wonder. it’s a fitting scene, he thinks. she should be an object of wonder. lilith finishes the autograph she had been working on, offering it to a tri-clops child with auburn hair, and smiles to the group of admirers.

“that’s all for now, children! i’ll have time for more later, i promise!”

her reassurance is met with mild disappointment but is ultimately understood. the group disperses. lilith raises those ocean eyes to him and strides forward. one, then two, then three steps. until they are a mere arms-length apart. he could reach out and touch her if he so desired. hold her tight and never let go. for a second, he seriously considers it, odalia be damned.

her gaze drops to amity, softens, and the impulse is tossed aside. it is another star left to die.

“i wasn’t aware you had a second shadow, alador,” lilith giggles, but her voice is gentle and fond. “hello, little one! i’m lilith – it’s nice to meet you.”

amity clings to his hand, wide-eyed and wonderstruck, but so terribly shy. for a second, she glances up at him. alador nods in encouragement.

“i’m amity,” she whispers. “amity blight.”

it never ceases to amaze him how _small_ his children seem. had he been so tiny? lilith’s hand dwarfs amity’s, all long fingers and elegance. but her grasp is gentle as her voice, and the smile she wears is enough to make his heart flutter in his chest.

“i noticed you and your father in the crowd during my demonstration. how do you think i compare to the abomination coven? “lilith asks, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “your father always complains i’m too flashy.”

the change is instantaneous. amity lights up and begins launching into a passionate explanation of the differences between lilith’s and octavius’s demonstrations. the differences in the _covens_ , in their values and their strengths and their weaknesses. it’s an in-depth, complex discussion for such a young child. alador is both proud and flustered because, _titan_ , this little girl has gone through _five tutors_ in the last year alone. and, judging on her grasp of such complex material, she would need another one soon enough. lilith blinks in surprise a few times herself. but she never interrupts. instead, she listens, nodding along and asking a few questions here and there to clarify.

their chat lasts no more than a few minutes. but alador thinks he could listen to such beauty for hours.

when it comes to an end, lilith’s smile is smug, her eyes dancing as she glances up to him. “your daughter has better taste than you, alador. she sees the _clear_ superiority in joining the emperor’s coven.”

alador scoffs and ignores the twist of his stomach. “whatever you say, _coven leader_ clawthorne. amity is studying the abomination track at hexside and receiving private tutoring lessons. she will succeed in either coven should she choose.” a coy smile crosses his lips, and he squeezes amity’s hand a bit to show he is teasing. “of course, she’ll _clearly_ choose the abomination coven because she loves her papa more.”

amity giggles at his side, cheeks flushed pink, and lilith mock-gasps in offense. it feels so. . . _light_. as though he’s injected sunlight into his veins. he could sit and bask in this for days, for weeks, and it would never be enough.

behind them, there is a call from another small group of children. he recognizes them as the group of children chosen to be amity’s friends. one – the pink-haired girl with three eyes – looks bored, near-disgusted. but the little bard-child is grinning, her wave enthusiastic as she calls amity’s name.

amity waves back. then she looks up to him, a question shining in her eyes, and alador could more say no to her than he could to lilith when they were children. “would you like to go say hello to your friends? i’m sure you’re tired of being with dear old dad anyway.”

her smile is grateful, and though she hesitates, amity hugs him tight about the waist before running off to join her friends. his hand feels cold where she’d slipped through his grasp. anxiety pulses behind his eyes.

_why_ did he allow his children to go off alone?!

a hand descends on his shoulder, delicate but strong, warm.

“she’s beautiful, alador,” lilith whispers. “i haven’t seen her since. . . oh, how old was she when you last attended a coven ball? six?”

“eight, actually,” alador replies, faint for the ache in his chest. “amity’s always been small for her age.”

he remembers the occasion she’s referring to. the evening had been going perfectly. odalia had charmed several new up-and-coming members of the oracle coven. he’d been discussing business with key members of his management staff. amity had sequestered herself in a well-lit alcove, nose buried in a book as he kept a weather-eye out for her.

the twins, however, had gotten bored. they’d jinxed the punch bowl.

odalia vowed to never take their children to a function again after the unspeakable events of that night.

a sad kind of hum erupts from lilith’s lips, and he fights down the urge to wrap an arm about her waist. “that doesn’t take away from her mind, though. i’m impressed she was able to pick up so much from such short presentations, especially since her interests are so far and away from her siblings. the twins are on the illusion track, are they not?”

_they’re following in odalia’s footsteps?_ lays beneath the polite exterior, but alador makes no comment. instead, he nods, keeping a sharp eye on the group of ten-year-olds as they visit a baker’s coven booth. amity has thistleberry icing on her nose.

“amity is very different from her siblings,” he concedes. “but she’s brilliant, nonetheless. we’ve a hard time keeping up with her, actually – she’s had five tutors the past year because they either can’t seem to give her enough of a challenge or become frustrated by her way of thinking.”

the hand on his shoulder drops. it leaves a patch of ice in its absence. but then lilith steps closer. so close he can feel the heat of her, the magick rolling from her skin, and it makes his throat tighten.

“if you’re anticipating needing a new tutor,” she begins, voice low, “i am looking to take on an apprentice.”

he whirls to face her. “what?”

lilith offers him a weak smile, and he’s suddenly taken back to when they were ten. she’d gotten him a birthday present, a beautiful brass telescope, and had not been sure he would like it. her smile had been weak, unsure, afraid. his reaction then had been to laugh – loud and long, full of far too many teeth – and hug her tightly. he loved it. he loved _her_. he still does.

but. . .

“my duties as leader of the coven are many, yes, but i think i would do well to give back in other ways.” lilith glances away, nervous; she looks to amity’s small group of friends. “children are our future, after all. and you said it yourself, amity is brilliant. i would be thrilled to have her as my protégé.”

it’s an honor to have one’s child apprenticed to the leader of a coven. it is an even greater honor to have your child offered an apprenticeship under the head of the emperor’s coven. alador knows this. he also knows odalia will object _vehemently_ to having any of their children near lilith in any capacity, though she will also be aware of the rare position it places their family in.

alador looks at his youngest child. amity – brilliant, quiet, stoic amity – who had opened up to lilith so readily, who avoided him most days and gifted him with rare moments of shining happiness. amity, who hid the fact she still slept with an otabin plush and read fantasy novels that he snuck to her under odalia’s nose. amity, who flinches under her mother’s scrutiny and outpaces tutors with that curious mind of hers.

amity, who is laughing with her friends and still has a smudge of thistleberry icing on the tip of her button nose.

he glances at lilith again. there is warmth in her gaze, fondness, the beach on a mid-summer morning.

alador thinks of how similar they are, his youngest and his love. he thinks of a sea-shanty, high and haunting, sang in the wee hours to a sick little boy. he thinks of a rescue mission, conducted on a moonless night without coven approval, and concern for a traumatized little girl. he thinks of a soft smile given to a tiny princess who often was shut down for speaking her thoughts.

he thinks of a summer night long ago, spent lying in a hammock, her hair spilling over his chest and the smell of lilacs perfuming the air about them.

_“our children would have your eyes, i think_ ,” she’d whispered. “ _your eyes and your smile. and they’d be quick and clever like you, too._ ”

he remembers chuckling, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. _“they would have your nose, and your freckles. at least one will need glasses, i should think. and they’d have your curls.”_

he remembers how lilith had tightened her hold on him, lifting her head to kiss his jaw, forehead pressed to his temple as she whispered, “ _and they would be so very, **very** loved_.”

alador reaches out to grasp her hand, and the action seems to startle lilith. she looks at him with those big blue eyes, the ones he fell so desperately for all those years ago. he smiles, and it is all teeth.

“when would you like to discuss details?”

~*O*~

alador blight is forty-two years old.

his wife is informed of their youngest daughter’s apprenticeship under coven-leader clawthorne after the contract is drawn. at first, she says nothing, and her eyes are sickly with hellfire.

the confrontation is conducted in hissed insults and acidic words tossed behind closed-doors and silencing spells. it devolves into a physical confrontation somewhere around midnight.

he leaves the study with a black eye and bloody lip, knowing that amity will attend her first lesson with lilith the following monday.

it is the first victory in the battle against odalia since his wedding day.

it will also be the last – remember this.

~*O*~

the first lesson is marked by amity near-sprinting out to meet him, face flushed and eyes bright. he is greeted with arms thrown about his waist and a rush of words that barely make coherent sense. but his little girl is so _excited_ about what she has learned.

the twins do not trust him. they call him “father” in cool tones and track his every movement with their eyes. they are mischievous and clever and fae-like in their ability to get into trouble. but neither one looks to him. they excel at their studies. . . but only just.

but amity? amity still calls him “papa” when excited. and she is still young enough, innocent enough, to throw her arms about his waist when odalia is not around and squeeze _tight_. she holds his hands in crowds and, after a moment of acclimation to his presence, asks questions of him that he cannot help but adore.

his youngest child is a precious, rare gift, and he clings to what little affection she bestows upon him.

alador cannot help but smile at her enthusiasm. movement catches his eye, and his hand descends to amity’s tiny shoulder before he realizes it is lilith. his heart stutters. though the stiff bearing of her shoulders is still alien, the warmth in her eyes is unmistakable.

“you have a very talented little girl, lord blight,” she praises once they are close. “amity has shown some very promising skills today.”

amity glows under the light of her praise, and alador cannot think they have that in common. his smile is too wide – it shows too much teeth – but he could not shrink it if he tried. lilith’s expression falters a tad. but her returning smile is just as genuine.

“so, young lady, will you be up to lessons twice weekly?” alador questions, mock-serious as his daughter practically vibrates with excitement. “you will be expected to keep up with your other studies. and ms. clawthorne is a busy woman. this is a serious commitment.”

the amber eyes that gleam up at him are hard with determination, burning in her tiny face. “i can _do_ it, papa. i promise.”

they leave with polite, albeit stilted goodbyes, and alador walks away with sunshine in his veins. the cold air and hate in his heart do not bother him that night.

the second lesson is much like the first. amity is tired, but excited, and the wreath of pride about her is infectious. lilith seems downright smitten with his youngest child. the ice in her eyes has melted, and the smile on her face is genuine, and alador feels as though he could melt into the earth. they part happily, and the world feels more right.

the weeks pass. the greetings grow more relaxed. the conversations are less stilted. lilith is comfortable enough to tease him when amity is out of earshot. they meet to discuss progress after two months and he spends the whole meeting wondering if her lips still taste of the herbal tea she so loves. but he is married, and the suffocating presence of odalia is never quite gone, only muted, and so he maintains propriety.

still, he cannot help but drown in her eyes.

more time. they meet for joint projects, and the emperor is impressed by the ease with which they synergize. lilith is gentle strength and cool thoughts, soft words to direct and a discerning correction when needed. alador is stone and steel, a growl when things do not progress quickly and decisive action as the project dictates. they ebb and flow, give and take, push and pull. it makes him think to those days spent in the forest, the childish titles they bestowed upon themselves. alador the great. lilith the just.

sometimes, he thinks about how far edalyn has fallen, and he allows himself to miss their bold knight.

other times, when amity emerges from the castle clinging to lilith’s fingers and asking questions without fear, he allows himself to miss other opportunities. roads not taken; choices unmade. it is a chasm in his chest, a void that can never quite be filled. there are stars dying between his ribs.

but sometimes, in those moments when he can bask in the warmth of her smile, there are new stars that explode in supernovas. they fill his lungs, his veins, his soul. and alador thinks he will be okay.

seven months after amity is taken on as lilith’s apprentice, odalia decides he is far too comfortable with his youngest child. their relationship is too close. she cannot control them.

he receives a missive that odalia will take amity from her tutoring lessons. ice forms in the pit of his stomach. it does not melt, no matter how many times he tries to reassure himself. that night, he arrives home to a silent amity, face a mask of defeated resignation, and his stomach roils with nausea.

odalia’s features – beautiful, cold, _vicious_ – are triumphant over amity’s mint-green head.

“isn’t it a lovely color, dear?” she croons. “amity and i went to see the hairdresser after her lessons. she wanted to look just like her siblings, didn’t you, amity?”

the responding “yes, mother” is dead, void of emotion or tone.

hatred seethes, boils, blackens the inside of his skull. alador does not move. he does not summon abominations to wrench the pretty head from her shoulders; odalia is too quick for that. he does not think to poison her tea or her food; odalia is too clever for that. he does not think to strike her down himself; he does not have the fortitude to strike a woman.

they are bound. they are blights.

amity will shoulder the burden of her name and suffer with dignity.

“it looks lovely, amity dear,” is his response. “i’m sure everyone will compliment you tomorrow at school.”

she looks up. betrayal is stark on her face, in her eyes, and it is like looking into the void of time. but her eyes stare back at him every time he looks into a mirror.

“thank you, father.”

~*O*~

amity does not call him “papa” anymore.

he does not pick her up from lessons anymore.

the interactions with lilith grow more strained, less synergistic, and her eyes follow him with deep concern.

alador is a blight now, and he will shoulder the burden of his name. . .

and he will suffer in dignified silence.

odalia is smug, and she refuses to relinquish his hand at the next ball they attend, and alador allows the trespass. he does not engage unless she specifies.

the ballroom and his heart is cold.

he pretends the look in lilith’s eyes is scorn, betrayal, _anything_ other than the bone-deep concern it is. it’s easier this way.

~*O*~

alador blight is forty-three years old.

he is assigned a joint project by emperor belos with the leader of the emperor’s coven.

the pieces shift, click together, and the reaction picks up.

keep this in mind – it’s important.

~*O*~

his eyes are on _fire_.

alador doesn’t know how long they’ve been here, hunched over diagrams and curricula in a desperate attempt to implement the rigorous abomination-formation training the emperor has demanded. but it feels as though someone dumped sand inside his eyes, grains digging into his corneas and nictitating membrane. his back hurts. his shoulders feel like they are made of lead. he is _desperately_ tired.

the crisp, clean lines of each diagram blur before him. alador blinks rapidly, pressing his palms to the wooden tabletop, and attempts to stretch his back. his vertebrae pop and crackle, a rapid relief of pressure. his shoulders, knees, and knuckles follow suit. but it doesn’t quite relieve the ache. titan, he’s getting _old_. . .

a groan of exhaustion catches his attention, and he looks over to lilith.

she is planted face-first on the table, hands clenched in her hair and shoulders slumped. it would be funny did it not hurt his heart – she looks as defeated as he feels. sighing, alador drops into the uncomfortable chair beside her.

“why did we agree to do this again?” lilith gripes, voice muffled.

“we were volun-told,” alador deadpans. “it’s like agreeing, except we didn’t have a choice and it’s not like agreeing at all.”

the snort that escapes lilith throws him back to hexside, when they would sequester themselves away from edalyn – because the girl had a heart of gold but she was absolutely _exhausting_ to be around – and he’d throw joke after stupid joke to try and get her to giggle. because, eventually, the high-pitched giggles that she tried so hard to control would devolve into uncouth snorts. and they would spend the rest of their free period leaning against each other, tears streaming down their faces, food forgotten as they howled over something stupid as a _pun_.

alador cannot suppress a tired smile. lilith lifts her head, and he snorts at the large red spot left on her forehead.

“you couldn’t be a little _less_ proficient at your craft, alador?” she jabs, though the words hold no real heat. “it’s going to take _weeks_ to get the recruits up to speed on controlling the new golem-abominations.”

she isn’t wrong.

the newest creations are strong, more solid than a standard abomination, much like his guard abominations. however, they are agile, quick-moving. they lack the sheer depthless _brutality_ his other creations possess. the trade for this is greater difficulty in control, a need for fine-tuning one’s technique.

“i will not apologize for art, lilith.” even tired, he feels a tad affronted at his craft being slandered. “they will learn. . . eventually. and it will be _beautiful_.”

her eyes are shadowed, deep purple bruises standing out beneath them, and she deadpans, “i hate you _so much_ , alador blight.”

alador props his cheek on one hand, eyes drooping with exhaustion, and chuckles. “if it makes you feel better, i hate me more than you ever could, darling.”

he freezes.

damn – he hadn’t meant to say that aloud. they’ve been stuck in this titan-forsaken room together for hours now, sequestered away from everyone and everything but their work. it is nearing midnight, they are not nearly finished, and he is tired. that’s the reason he said it. . .

really.

amity’s lessons with lilith re-opened their relationship a tad. no longer is she glimpses of pale skin and sapphire eyes across a ballroom or desperate bargains in the dead of night. instead, she is a polite greeting at the end of a long day, a warm smile on a beautiful face as his daughter babbles about the exciting spells she’s mastered under ms. clawthorne’s tutelage. those moments were nice while they lasted, and the glass separating them is a membrane now, thin as spider-silk but oh-so-fragile.

he shudders to think of the shards digging into his flesh should they break the balance.

alador swallows thickly. he catches just the slightest glimpse of shock on lilith’s face before he returns his gaze to the blurred runes before him. he didn’t think he could stomach such a look on her face. not after. . . the image of her face all those years ago, awash in tears and contorted in heartbreak, flashes before him for a moment.

a delicate hand rests atop his own. he stiffens but does not look up. alador instead concentrates on trying to figure out what all these _damned_ squiggles mean.

“i don’t really hate you, alador,” lilith offers; her voice is soft as mist. “i don’t think i ever really did.”

~~no, please, no odalia is a snake and her eyes are like venom and she’ll _hurt his lilith_ and he doesn’t think his heart can take any more hurts and – ~~

alador looks to her. and all he sees is lilith. _his_ lilith. he smells the lilac of her perfume, the heavy scent of parchment, ink, dust. he looks back to the hand atop his own. she has long, delicate fingers, nails painted a deep indigo, so blue it could almost be black. they are so very soft compared to his own, so gentle. it is a misconception that alador has the soft hands of an aristocrat. because abominations are difficult, and they are complex, and he often finds himself grinding his palms against half-dissolved formulations to attempt and find the failing. they are calloused and scarred and. . . dirty.

his hands are filthy, and they do not deserve to sully such beauty.

“you should hate me,” he whispers, hoarse. “after all i did, you should hate me. _i_ hate me.”

he does.

alador blight is a coward, and a fool, and he _hates_ himself.

lilith does not allow him to linger on that thought. instead, she forcibly turns his chair, leaning so close he can feel the heat of her on his face. through his clothes. he must smell disgusting – the new abomination formula is potent and the hour is late – but she does not seem to care. she squeezes his hands tight in her own, indigo hair falling in a curtain about her delicate face.

“i don’t hate you, alador,” lilith reiterates, voice firm and fragile. “i hate the choices you made. the ones you _make_. but i don’t hate you.”

his eyes are on fire. it is not from exhaustion. when he looks into lilith’s eyes once more, it is through a film that cracks by the second. tears and glass. they’ll cut him to the bone and leave him to bleed.

“i _hurt you_ , lily,” alador whimpers. “and i let odalia hurt my children. you should hate me. i want you to. it would make it easier.”

it would make it easier to see her in the training-halls with amity, laughing and smiling at his little girl like she is the whole world, without sweeping her in for a kiss. it would make it easier to smell her perfume and not fight to avoid burying his nose in her hair. it would make it _easier_. because he would never be close enough to torture himself with all the little things he is not worthy of having.

lilith’s hands leave his own and cradle his cheeks. her face is a portrait of sympathy, wreathed in light and plagued by exhaustion. alador does not deserve such absolution.

he leans into the touch anyway.

“you hurt me,” lilith admits. “badly. but i hurt myself as well. and i think you hurt yourself, too.”

his breath hitches, and alador reaches up to grasp her wrists. tears burn his eyes. the gritty feeling never quite goes away.

“i’ve missed you,” and his voice rasps over each syllable, “ _so much_.”

without thinking, he turns to press a kiss to each palm, thumb rubbing over the delicate skin of her wrists. lilith trembles. her eyes are watering, face contorted, and the liquid makes her gaze crystalline. a thumb ghosts over his cheekbone.

“i’ve missed you, too,” she warbles, a deprecating laugh escaping. “i tried not to. but i can’t help it.”

they sit in heavy silence for an eternity. alador holds his breath and her wrists, and he refuses to break the moment.

except he _does_.

because looking into her eyes, awash with tears and so _very_ blue, is breaking his heart all over again. she is _here_ , and warm, and _beautiful_ , and he just. . .

alador kisses her.

it is desperate, sudden, and lilith squeaks in shock against him. but there is no resistance, no indignation as he has feared in his darkest nightmares. instead, after a moment, she kisses _back_. he releases her wrists to tangle one hand in her hair, the other cupping her cheek. she is made of steel and porcelain, and her skin is the softest silk he has ever touched.

their knees knock together. his back hurts from the angle he is leaning at. it is certainly not the most graceful kiss they’ve ever shared.

it’s perfect.

their lips slide together, and he can taste sugar from the cup of tea she’s left, forgotten, on the table beside them. he must remind himself to be gentle. to not bite at her lips, or grip her to him, or growl against the silk of her skin. gentle, gentle, _gentle_ with his lilith. one of her hands scratches along his beard, the other sliding up to grip his hair. this time, he cannot suppress the growl that erupts in his chest.

eventually, though, they need to breathe.

lilith draws back first. they hover in limbo, foreheads pressed tight, chests heaving. her hand clenches against his scalp. she doesn’t open her eyes to look at him. it hurts. but not so terribly as her absence had. alador purrs, nuzzling against her nose, and she chirps. he wants to get closer. closer, closer, closer, and just. . . breathe her in.

it’s been _so long_.

so of course, it cannot last.

“alador, we can’t do this,” lilith whispers, though she doesn’t move. “you’re married. you have children. we can’t _do this_.”

another growl is building in his chest. he knows she’s right. odalia will find out. it may not be immediately, perhaps not even soon, but she _will_ find out. and they do not love one another, but odalia is a possessive wife and a cruel woman. she clings and claws and dictates who may be present in his life and her ruthlessness is legendary.

he _knows_ she’s right.

but. . .

“i don’t care!” he hisses.

another kiss. a little harder, a little more desperate, and lilith whimpers against him. he wants to be closer. but their damned _knees_ are in the way. her nails rake along his scalp. their teeth click, noses bumping, and he is drowning in her. he’s drowning in lilacs and sugar-coated lips and the drip of saltwater from her ocean eyes.

another growl. he draws her into his lap with a fluid motion because it just _isn’t enough_. his back protests the motion, but it is worth it to feel her straddle his thighs once more. to press her tight to his chest and keep her there. her hips are wider than in their youth, softer, and it feels so _right_ to curl an arm in the small of her back once more.

she gasps against his mouth, and alador takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss. his tongue slides against hers, traces the roof of her mouth. it’s been so damnably _long_ since he’s gotten to do this. he wants to savor it. savor _her_.

“alador, we can’t,” she mumbles; he keeps pressing kisses to her soft mouth. “odalia. . .”

this time, he snarls, scraping his fangs along the line of her jaw. “what _about_ odalia?!”

lilith shudders against him, hands clenching on his shoulders. alador is a blight, and blights do not lose control, but this. . .

how could anyone resist her?

she is soft and beautiful and warm and she smells so _titan-damned good_ and he wants to hold her so tight she joins the stars between his ribs, safe and bright, and he near-sobs when she keeps him from mouthing a wet, sucking kiss at her pulse-point. it feels like he could combust. like his skin is too small.

it’s been so damnably _long_.

lilith frames his face once more, and her eyes are full of tears even as she smiles at him. her lips are swollen, and there is black lipstick smudged along their skin. a thumb traces along his cheekbone, back and forth then back again. he trembles.

he’s drowning. he wants to drown. he wishes she would let him.

“do you know, i can’t tell you how many times i dreamed you would do this?” she whispers, a secret for them alone. “sweep into the room and just. . . kiss me like you used to? i’ve missed this. i’ve missed _you_.”

her thumb leaves his cheek and traces his lips. alador thinks he might cry. instead, he kisses the pad and listens.

“your sister punched me in the face,” he blurts, the memory rising unbidden, “when the twins were very small. we were talking about how they looked like odalia, and she punched me in the face. i deserved it. i still deserve it.”

a sad, coughing laugh erupts from lilith, and she huddles just _that_ much closer. “why am i not surprised?”

another silence, and this one presses into his lungs like iron. he cannot breathe. he wants to stay here, with her, until the world comes crashing down around their ears. softly, cruelly, she presses another kiss to his lips. it’s slower, gentler than the others they have shared. her nose brushes against his just the slightest bit, nuzzling, and he wraps his hands about her waist.

she’s so tiny. since when was lilith ever tiny?

“i’ve wanted you to sweep in and kiss me for _years_ , you idiot,” lilith murmurs against him, hoarse and sad. “and now that you do it, i have to tell you no.”

“you don’t _have_ to say no,” is his retort, churlish and desperate. “just. . . stay with me tonight. let us have this.”

lilith sighs. she kisses his forehead, lingering and sad. “i want to, alador. i _do_. but we can’t. not like this.”

“and why in the titan’s _bloody_ name not?!”

they’re clinging to one another, desperate and feverish, and he can feel her tears falling on his skin. they mix with his own. he rocks in the uncomfortable chair and keeps her close and tries desperately to hold on to the warmth that is slipping through his fingers.

another kiss. soft, slow, cruel. it tastes like salt water and goodbyes.

“i won’t do this to your children. not with odalia near them,” she whispers, and it’s like being ran through with a poisoned blade. “i _adore_ amity. she doesn’t deserve to pay for our mistakes. i’ve made too many in my life – i won’t add her suffering to the pile. i'm sorry”

and then she is gone, wiping tears away with the pads of her fingers as she near-sprints for the door. her cup of tea is forgotten. the curricula they’ve formed are garbage anyway. alador cannot move. there’s too much ice in his veins, poison turning his legs to stone, and the black self-hatred crawling up his throat is suffocating.

he wanted to drown, but not like this.

“i love you, alador blight,” lilith calls. “don’t forget that.”

it’s an echo of his own words, spoken to her on a summer morning so long ago.

_i love you, lilith clawthorne. remember that_.

she is gone. the room is cold. her teacup is forgotten.

alador returns home, lays next to his wife, and damns fate with every breath. no tears fall.

there are none left to shed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . . I made myself really, _really _fucking sad with this.__
> 
> __An actual author was harmed in the making of this chapter. I apologize in advance if that last bit seems out of character or rushed - I wanted to really hit home desperately thirsty these trash-fires are for one another, while at the same time show how emotionally _fucking stupid _they are. Seriously, Alador, if you wanna make out with Lilith divorce your FUCKING WIFE FIRST.___ _
> 
> ____The next chapter will start to (kind of) coincide with canon, and it will most definitely be less. . . emotionally taxing. Hopefully. I shall make a valiant effort but I can't promise shit. Sorry._ _ _ _
> 
> ____Thank you all so much for taking the time to read this behemoth of a chapter, and I can't wait to see you all in the next one!_ _ _ _


	6. metanoia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alador blight hears voices sometimes. he dreams sometimes, too. 
> 
> it complicates things. 
> 
> lilith clawthorne is forty-four years old. she meets a human.
> 
> it changes everything.
> 
> but, of course, you already knew that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: this chapter has depictions of not-so-nice thoughts, pretty violent nightmares, and a character in the midst of an anxiety attack. Please be kind to yourselves!

**_metanoia_** : _noun – the journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self, or way of life; spiritual conversion_

~*O*~

alador blight is forty-three years old.

he hears voices sometimes.

he dreams sometimes, too.

they complicate things.

remember that.

~*O*~

the study is cold and empty, but not nearly so empty as he is.

it’s a kind of sanctuary, he has found, away from everything. work is a constant. it is grueling, mind-numbing hours of formulae and planning and resource delegation, of sifting through applicant resumes and approving salaries and cutting dead-weight from the fat, bloated carcass of his coven.

it’s funny, really – he hasn’t been this productive in ages. his assistant says it’s both a blessing and a curse. alador just thinks that the void in his chest makes deciding who does not deserve their position that much easier.

all it took was ~~i love you, alador blight~~ a heft dose of reality to remind him of what is important.

somewhere in the void, a clock chimes twelve times, marking midnight. he has worked well into the night but ~~the dreams the nightmares they come one by one~~ there is plenty of work to be done still yet.

the words are blurring in front of his eyes. behind him, an abomination stands at attention, silent and stationary. the manor is a graveyard. nothing disturbs him but the crackle of the fireplace, the ticking of the clock. it should be calm. peaceful.

alador finds it nothing of the sort.

~~i love you, alador blight. don’t forget that.~~

he places his pen in its rightful place and kneads at the delicate skin of his eyelids. lights dance behind his palms, fireflies of his own making. there’s a word for them – he knew it at one-point ~~lilith enjoys learning obscure words~~ – but he’s long forgotten it. exhaustion makes his hands shake.

“abomination, cower.”

the command is hoarse, booming in the quiet, but the creature dissipates without issue. standing, alador stretches and laments his age with every popping joint and pressing ache. and still, he puts the fire out with a lazy circle of his finger, making the well-traveled path from study to bedroom blind. the manor is full of darkness, heavy and cloying, but he’s learned to make peace with that.

he accepts the burn of the shadows and lets them fill his lungs with tar.

~~i love you, alador blight.~~

after all, what else is a man of his status to do but bear his title and carry on?

down the corridor, lined with portraits of witches with cold viper-eye stares and emerald locks. pass one, two doors on his left. he glances in the first – emira is fast asleep, back facing him, breaths even and slow. the second reveals amity curled around a worn stuffed rabbit; otabin, it seemed, could survive odalia with enough creativity.

another several steps. they echo off the wood, cold and mocking, and the walls follow his movements. a door on his right, ajar, reveals edric. his son is thirteen now but sleeps as he had as a child; thumb tucked in his mouth, curled facing the door so nothing could sneak upon him. vaguely, he recalls odalia saying something about “breaking a habit” and ignores the sick ice building in his stomach.

his children are quiet and peaceful in sleep.

in daylight, they are clever and well-spoken and terribly, _terribly_ argumentative. edric and emira dislike amity – for her grades, for her aloof nature, for her tutoring sessions, he does not know – and they let it be known. frequently and with gusto. they pick and they prod and they rip open bleeding mental sores until his youngest is a frantic, red-faced mess. he pities amity on occasion.

would that she could be an only child.

that isn’t to say his twins weren’t terribly cruel to one another as well. edric is bright and mischievous, yes, but he follows emira without question. his eldest girl is strong ~~she resembles odalia more and more with the passing days and that _frightens him_~~ and capable, her twin trailing like an anchor. they argue, and they spit, and sometimes alador finds emira curled in on herself muttering, “you aren’t part of a set, you aren’t part of a set, you _aren’t_ part of a set” until the words dissolve into nonsense. the first time, he had tried to comfort her.

he does not make that mistake anymore.

and edric may be capable of making friends of his own, but he is _petrified_ of being away from emira for any length of time. she is his comfort blanket, security wrapped in a face so similar to his own. separation causes panic. it took nearly a year to get him to sleep in his own room. . .

alador sometimes questioned the haunted look in his son’s eyes during that period, how odalia fixated on him like a predator sizing prey, and he does not think he could stomach knowing what methods she employed to get the results she so desired.

a sigh. alador continues his trek down the darkened hallway. the final door, looming at the very end of the corridor. the handle burns like ice under his palms, though he is certain the room is warm. summer is approaching quickly, after all. ~~then why is he so cold?~~ he tip-toes through the shadows, undressing and then re-dressing in silence before slipping into bed.

on the other side, odalia shifts, rolling to face his direction. he cannot see her, even though there is thin, violet moonlight filtering in through the windows. but he knows she is awake. there is a particular sensation that accompanies her gaze, akin to having a razor caress against your flesh, never quite knowing if you’re about to be split apart or left intact.

“you’ve been working far too hard, alador,” she whispers, voice deceptively kind. “why don’t you stay home tomorrow? you’ve looked awful.”

he _feels_ awful.

he _is_ awful.

“it’s nothing, dear,” is his reply, monotone and unaffected as he can make it. “the coven is going through growing-pains, nothing more. i shall try to get on a more regular schedule within the month.”

there are no more words spoken. her gaze does not leave him, but alador refuses to acknowledge it. instead, he rolls to face away, feeling it stab into his spine, and relishes the burn. it’s a comfort, knowing he has gotten good enough at their game to dictate pieces now. he may not have say in their children, or in their bed, but he has say as to when he allows odalia the “pleasure” of his company.

surprisingly enough, odalia slides closer, wrapping her arms around his torso and pressing her nose to the back of his neck. he tenses. waits. her thumbs remain stationary. she does not squeeze too tightly. she just. . . lays there. after a time, her breathing grows even, slow, and deep – she has fallen asleep.

for a time, alador simply lays there, unmoving. he stares into the shadows and breathes. he lets the tar begin to choke him. he does not relax into the touch. he does nothing.

then rage begins to swell, hatred oozing right behind. they are dragons, corpses of ice and fire, dried scales and bleached bone, that claw their way from his belly to his chest, ripping at his ribcage and feasting upon the stars he has so carefully hidden away all these years. they slather and drip, trying to tear the precious memories. alador trembles. he does not allow them access.

those are _his_ stars. _his_ stars, filled with sunrises and hammocks, laughter like silver bells and eyes that hold an ocean, soft kisses that taste of sugar and the smell of lilacs. _his_ stars, moments of his children smiling and taking first steps, of tiny faces wreathed in excitement and the pride that accompanies a first spell. they are precious, perfect moments, locked in time and protected.

these dragons may chew at his heart, gnaw on his bones, claw at his skull. they may rend him limb from limb.

but they will _. not._ take _._ his _._ stars.

so the dragons conspire, contort, and they drag themselves on oil-slicks and steel claws into his mind. they begin to whisper. the feeling of odalia’s breath on the back of his neck is suffocating. her arms are loose and yet they feel like a manticore trap. he wants to scream. he wants to toss her away from him. he wants. . .

_coward_ , hate whispers, _you want what you cannot have. what you do not deserve._

rage chuckles. _yOu CoUlD eNd HeR. bReAk HeR. wHy NoT? sHe TOOK fRoM yOu. . ._

odalia sighs. huddles tighter along the line of his spine. he stiffens further, hands fisted, jaw clenched.

the dragons hiss and croon, beating against the confines of his skull with emaciated tails. drawing glyphs upon the walls of their home in acid.

hate is soft, liquid, creeping and crawling until his heart is in his ears and he sees nothing but red in the blackness. _poor little aristocrat. you forget your place. she reminds you. isn’t that sad? wanting something you don’t deserve. how **pathetic**_.

rage is hard, and harsh, and it scrapes against nerves made raw by a lack of sleep. _kILL HeR. sHe’S a MoNsTeR, yOu KnOw. It’Ll Be EaSy. JuSt OnE lItTle SpElL. . ._

alador is not a fool. he is blind, and ignorant, and selfish, and arrogant. but he is not a fool. his fingers tremble with the urge. the command ~~obliteratekillkillkill _destroyher_~~ rests on his tongue like acid, like candy. it would be so _easy_. but he does not act.

he lays, rigid, listening to the whispers until he can no longer remain awake.

the next morning, he does not go in for work.

instead, he sleeps, and the blackness behind his eyelids is almost frightening.

he does not bother trying to keep odalia off him – he misses someone holding him, anyway.

~~except she doesn’t fit, not like lilith does, and the pieces are jagged and slice wounds into his already-broken heart.~~

~*O*~

alador dreams.

this one is not like the others.

he is sprinting through smoke, grime clinging to every inch of him. his clothes are torn. his body aches. blood runs from open wounds in his arms, legs, torso. there is a gash on his forehead that drips into his left eye, and it burns. it burns like the fires that rage.

everything is chaos. people are screaming, running, colliding in bursts of panicked bodies and swirls of magick that superheat his skin. his pulse is ringing in his ears, magick burning on his fingertips, lungs full of smoke.

it hurts.

why is he running?

alador entertains the thought through the ringing, but his body does not stop. it moves incoherently, one foot in front of the other through rubble. vaguely, he recognizes the ruins of bonesborough. there is panic thrumming behind his ribs. his ears buzz. he’s _terrified_. but why?

he catches his foot on a stone. the ground rushes to meet him, pain jarring through his bones as he tries to break the fall. wrists, elbows, shoulders, jaw. his skull aches. the panic rises, rushes, blooms along his limbs until he is trembling in place. the bodies around him begin to converge. feet collide with him. pain in his legs, shoulders, ribs, stomach. somehow, he manages to lever upright. the sprint begins anew.

everything is a blur, a rush, and he _still doesn’t understand. . ._

“alador!!”

a voice shrieks his name, agonized, and cold fear raises the hair at his nape. alador stops, an immovable object amidst the flood. the bodies part around him, like water around a stone, and he can feel his heart hammering in his mouth.

he _knows_ that voice.

“lilith?” he croaks. “ _lilith?!!_ where are you?!!!”

too many bodies. there is blood and dust in his eyes, smoke and magick in his lungs, ink and oil choking his heart. alador doesn’t stop looking though. he pushes and shoves, ignores the blood dripping from his body. _plink, plink, plink!_ wasted onto the churned earth below. he looks and he looks, frantic, consuming, desperate.

he finds her.

she is bloodied and half-broken, slumped against the side of a ruined house like a ragdoll thrown asunder. those big blue eyes are glassy with agony, bruised and dirtied, crimson streaming from a gash in her hairline. one of her legs is twisted unnaturally, purpled and bloody. her lips are cracked. still, she smiles when she sees him.

alador can’t _breathe_.

“alador!” she gasps, and it’s like damnation, trilled in a siren’s tongue.

he drops to his knees beside her, trembling. there are tears in his eyes. everything hurts. burning, blood, pain, _why why why his lily???_

she reaches up to cup his cheek, but her hands are cold. weak. there’s a wound in her chest. deep, angry, a chasm. it fractures like glass near the edges. a broken heart. he nearly retches at the sight. alador wants to scream. he wants to obliterate the world. he wants to. . . he wants to. . .

“i knew you’d come,” lilith rasps; she’s still smiling. “i _knew it_.”

alador chokes on a sob. there’s blood on her lips, redredred, and the color is so _startling_ against her skin. she’s always been terribly pale, his lilith, but this is death. translucent, graying pallor that sucks the very life from her marrow and, _titan_ , he just wants her to _live_.

he places his hand over her own, laces their fingers and kisses each one. “i’m right here. let’s get you out of here, my little raven.”

but her smile is sad, and the rattle in her chest is wet, and there’s just so much _blood_. witches are hardy, tough to wound and even tougher to kill. but this is. . .

“i love you _so much_ , do you know?” lilith’s voice is a faint wheeze, but the love in her eyes burns. “i wanted to tell you that. just one more time.”

alador shakes his head, trembles, frantically smooths hair from her cheeks. he does not care about blood or sweat or dust or propriety. he lets out a sob, presses his forehead against hers. there are no lilacs. only the heavy, choking smell of iron and smoke. she’s so damned _cold_.

“no, lily!” it’s a plea, a moan, a wail. “no, no, no, fight it for me, lily! _fight it!!_ ”

her skin is icy. her hand stops squeezing his. her chest stills with a horrible, wrenching death-rattle. her eyes are vacant, gray and lifeless. there are no tempests, no lightning, no summer skies. there is only a white-filmed abyss.

still, she smiles.

alador can barely breathe. he can’t _breathe_. he clutches her body tight against him and sobs. bones crunch. there is iron and dust and things he cannot name on his lips. it tastes like death, like trauma, like despair. he kisses her anyway. as though she were a princess, ready to be woken by the faerytale savior.

but this is not a faerytale, and he is a coward, and her body remains lifeless.

arms sneak about his chest, hold him fast. a nose presses against the back of his neck. scales slide along his skin, dry and rasping.

“you should’ve listened. i told you i would break her.”

and alador screams.

~*O*~

alador dreams.

dust. crowds. blood. screaming.

it is emira. she is dead, small and cold, and above her a man smiles with roving mad eyes. he is charred, blackened, crunching bones and the stench of ash. but still, he smiles. still, his eyes are mad.

he is too slow.

he does not save her.

he screams.

~*O*~

alador dreams

dust-crowd-blood-screaming-runrunrun- _find-him-now-not-too-late_

edric is in a hospital, tiny and frail, with blue lips. lilith cradles his body to her chest, humming that lullaby as she strokes his hair. she looks to him, and her eyes are gone. the sockets leak crimson tears. she smiles with blood dripping from her teeth.

there are rose petals blossoming along her tongue, creeping up her throat and ripping delicate flesh with thorns.

he wasn’t there to help them.

he is too slow.

he screams.

~*O*~

alador dreams.

he runs. fast, far, desperate. he bursts into the spare room of the manor, sees birthday presents all gleaming like jewels atop dark tables.

amity is bruised and broken and still, wrapped in a serpent’s coils as it croons in soft sibilance. her face is a mask, her eyes unseeing. her head lolls unnaturally on her neck. he drops to his knees before the horror and cries.

_dear pretty girl, rest your head, you’ve lain with the snakes, and now you’re dead._

it nuzzles, and hisses, and venom sears into his arms as odalia’s eyes glare from the serpent’s face. angry, mocking, knowing.

he is not good enough. he is too slow. too weak.

a coward.

this time, he does not scream.

~*O*~

alador wakes.

he goes back to work and does not dream again.

the next day, he moves his things to another room and refuses to disclose to his wife why. this remains for nearly six months before she demands he return to the master suite. a year passes, then two, and alador does not sleep unless there is a fortress of pillows between his back and odalia.

~~he cannot stand the touch of her.~~

~*O*~

alador blight is forty-four years old.

there is a human on the boiling isles.

she changes _everything_.

of course, you do not need to be told this.

~*O*~

the call from principal bump is not precisely unexpected, merely an inconvenience.

over the years, alador has come to realize that the mischievous nature of his eldest children does not merely remain within the walls of blight manor. they are sly and clever creatures, yes, but they are still children. incidents occur. they get arrogant, do not adequately cover their tracks. and though their many pranks are less destructive than edalyn’s once were, alador cannot help but make the comparison every time he sees bump’s exasperated, exhausted expression through the crystal ball.

this call, however, is different.

it concerns amity.

“alador, i’m sorry to bother you, but i thought you would like to be made aware of the. . . incident that occurred with amity today.” hieronymus bump is one of three whole people outside of his family who dare call him by his first name, and it is a gift borne from respect. “i would have contacted your wife; however, i fear she may be a bit. . . “

the sentence trails into nothingness.

alador does not need any clarification.

he sighs, setting his quill to the side and providing bump with his full attention. “of course, principal bump. is amity alright?”

it’s a fair question. his youngest child reminds him of himself. determined, studious, and stoic in a way that tended to concern other adults in her life. she is not a troublemaker by nature. any incident concerning her was likely big.

bump eases his concerns quickly. “she’s perfectly fine, alador, don’t worry. but there was an incident with a fellow classmate that she managed to be involved with. i figured you would want to discuss it prior to odalia becoming aware.”

the look in his old instructor’s eyes is knowing and hard, and it takes years of discipline to keep from squirming beneath it. “of course. what happened?”

“one of amity’s classmates, willow park, presented a new abomination during school today. her instructor was so impressed by this that amity was stripped of her top-student position. she. . . didn’t take it very well.” alador could imagine – his youngest was also _fiercely_ competitive. “there was an altercation during lunch between amity and ms. park, and i felt it prudent to take your daughter’s concern’s seriously.”

hieronymus bump had seen everything from here to there, it seemed. but he still managed to look exasperated as he massaged the bridge of his nose. “to make a long story short, your daughter helped lead a small platoon of abominations against the rogue _sentient_ abomination ms. park somehow conjured. after, of course, ms. park overran the school with various magickal plants. she’s fine, of course, but you might want to be sure she didn’t overtax her magick when she returns home tonight.”

alador blinks. his jaw works. but there is no sound. after a moment, he manages to find his voice once more.

“a _sentient_ abomination, you say?” the words flood over his tongue in a rush. “principal bump, _i_ haven’t even managed to create a fully sapient creation yet. how in the titan’s name could _willow park_?”

the principal’s disbelieving raised eyebrow made alador want to squirm. “i seem to recall one young lady during your tenure at hexside that managed to create _multiple_ sentient abominations. at the same time, in fact.”

scowling is unbecoming of a witch of his status, but alador cannot stop himself. “edalyn clawthorne is a menace and an exception. you know this.”

the sly, knowing grin on the old man’s withered face makes alador want to punch things. “of course, alador. i seem to recall another young witch who was an exception to most your rules as well. but my memory isn’t what it used to be. i’m getting up there, you know.”

there is anger, indignation, hypocritical wrath, and self-loathing knotting in his stomach, and alador can do nothing but grind his teeth and blush hot. “quite, principal bump. is that all?”

despite his blatant amusement, bump takes the hint and nods his head. “that’s all, alador. give my regards to the mrs and i wish you all the luck for the upcoming covention.”

the call disconnects.

alador is left seething in his office, jaw clenched, face hot. his shoulders are tense. he isn’t sure what about the call has left him so unsettled. ~~except he _does_ because bump knows damn well lilith is the exception to all his self-imposed rules and that he loves her and that everything in his life is a farce and how _dare he_ say something like that to his face?!~~ it takes several moments to regain his composure, to return to a semblance of the stoic, stony-faced man his coven-members know so well.

amity will be home around five or so – he had better work quickly if he is to intervene before odalia can return to the manor.

~*O*~

amity tells him a story in shades of fury and exasperation and grudging respect.

she tells him of a class where willow parks, who is not in tune with abomination magicks in the slightest, manages to create an abomination which dances and tells jokes. she tells of cheating, of lies, of trying to uncover the truth only to be told-off by a teacher.

he tells him of a purple-covered _person_ , attempting to pass herself off as an abomination. of this person evading ten abominations and willow – sweet little willow with big glasses and a bigger heart – overrunning the school with vines to allow an escape.

the look in amity’s eyes is frightened, wild, and he can see the telltale signs of magickal exhaustion in the shake of her fingers and the slur to her speech.

alador takes the story in stride, pats his youngest child atop the head, and tells her that she had done well. a blight does not take blasphemy ~~their entire life is a lie~~ and a blight defends their honor to the core ~~what honor does a twelve-year-old child need to defend?~~ and she has done well. the slump of relief in her tiny shoulders sends a pang of regret through his stomach.

he sends her to bed with a light supper and promises to intercept odalia.

for once, he manages to do as he says. odalia is angry, but she listens to reason, and they go to bed that night with an ocean of ice-water and fury between them. still, as he drifts off to sleep, he cannot get over the description that amity had given of the thing.

small, witch-like, with short hair. . .

and _round ears_.

~*O*~

lilith clawthorne is forty-four years old.

she meets a human.

she makes a decision.

this is the beginning of everything. . .

but, of course, you know the rest.

~*O*~

it has been nearly thirty years since she has joined the emperor’s coven. she is the _leader_ of it, for pity’s sake.

and, still, lilith cannot seem to get out of having to work the damned covention.

crowds make her nervous. the excessive amount of bodies around her, mingling words and smells and magicks, is deeply uncomfortable. she wants to go back to her quarters in the castle, curl under a blanket and dream of ~~alador kissing her alador holding her alador smiling alador alador alador~~ absolute nothingness for the rest of eternity. she wants to be _away_ from the thrumming, writhing mess of witches that sprawls through the covention center like fungus. she wants to run to find edalyn and spill her secrets like vomit on the floor. she wants to find alador and drag him into a corner for a kiss like she used to. she wants to hide behind her mass of hair and disappear.

lilith does none of those things. her bed is cold and empty, and edalyn is a wanted criminal, and alador is married to a woman that scares the absolute _shit_ out of her.

instead, she puts on her winningest smile and articulates the greatest values of the emperor’s coven to the bright, enraptured little faces that surround her.

never mind that she has alienated her peers to get to her position. never mind that she lives alone in quarters that are sparse and cold with no family to fill the silence. never mind that she ~~she loves him he kissed her and she loves him but _this isn’t right_~~ is not married to the only person she has ever loved. and never mind that she cursed her baby sister to gain entry to the coven, that she damned precious, vivacious edalyn to a life of crime because she was too afraid of inferiority to play fair.

guilt chews its way through her bones, leaving holes in her skeleton by the day. thankfully, the children do not see this. they see the leader of the emperor’s coven. they see lilith clawthorne – straight-backed, confident, powerful.

sitting in her dressing room, lilith feels none of these things. instead, she feels as though the world is crashing around her shoulders. the emperor’s orders are echoing in her ears, bouncing off her skull, wreaking havoc on the stone-sealed walls around her heart.

_capture the owl lady_ , he had said, _and i shall heal her curse_. . .

_capture the owl lady_ , as though that is something she is capable of.

_capture the owl lady,_ as though the thought of edalyn in coven-garb is not enough to make her laugh aloud, to cry for a future that can never be.

_capture the owl lady_ , as though he is not asking her to commit another sin against her bright, rambunctious, precious baby sister.

of all the titan-damned days for her to be in a spiral. . . this had to be it?!

lilith takes a deep, ragged breath and forces her hands to stop shaking. her vision swims but the tears don’t fall. another breath. in for four, hold for four, out for eight. her eyes close. unwillingly, an image forms behind her eyelids.

alador, staring down at her with warm honey-gold love, his lips curled in the smile that makes her stomach flop. confident, knowing, mischievous. he claims his twins are nothing like him but she knows better. the image’s smile widens, and he mouths, “show them what little ravens are made of.”

she opens her eyes.

the tears do not fall.

the tracking spell linked to principal bump’s microphone alerts her, and lilith prepares for the teleportation. illusion spells are still difficult – it makes her physically ill thinking about how much _better_ than her odalia still is – but this one is within her wheelhouse. teleportation has become second-nature, especially after the number of undercover missions she has conducted over the years.

“you know her! you love her! lilith!!”

it’s forever the same introduction, but the sincerity in his words is a comfort.

lilith enters the ring in a whirlwind of flame, ravens blasting from the blue with a raucous caw that seems to echo overhead. she stands in the center of the ring, hands aloft, a smile on her face as she takes in all the little faces staring at her in awe. she was once one of those little faces.

oh to be naïve again. . .

the speech has changed little over the years, just enough not to become stale, but the sentiment remains the same. no matter where you are from, no matter what your background may be, if you work diligently and remain firm, there is always a place in the emperor’s coven. always.

sometimes, in the dead of the night, she wonders at the sincerity of such a thing.

today, she looks to the crowd and sees amity’s round, wide-eyed little face, grinning widely down at her, and wonders nothing of the sort.

instead, lilith grins, proclaiming, “the emperor’s coven awaits you!” as she disappears into the flames once more. it’s nice, feeling the blue-heat of them against her skin. sometimes she wishes she could sink into them forever. she’s been so cold for so long ~~almost two whole years and she can still sometimes hear him begging her to stay~~.

still, the roar of an appreciative crowd does boost her mood somewhat. principal bump – she still cannot force herself to call him hieronymus, not after so many years of attempting to get edalyn out of hot water – greets her with a congratulatory handshake. his weathered face is warm, kind as it has always been, but there is something sad in his eyes as he watches her.

it makes her stomach knot.

lilith ignores the pulse of anxiety behind her eyes and the ants crawling in her skin. she emerges into the covention with a confident smirk ~~too many eyes too many eyes go _away please_~~ and greets the crowds with polite deference. soon there is a crowd of children surrounding her, little faces lit up in excitement. it eases her nerves somewhat. she signs autographs and answers questions posed by daring children with gaped teeth and bright eyes. she even accepts a drawing from a very, _very_ tiny boy that makes her heart hum with joy. his bashful grin when she praises his artistry is something she will cherish for years to come. the faces are different, but the emotions spread across them remains the same, and lilith allows herself to fall into the steady comfort of young souls.

then she catches a glimpse of a familiar mane of hair.

for a moment, she thinks nothing of it. her sister is only forty-two years old – she should not have a full head of gray hair. but then instinct takes over, an electric pulse deep in the base of her fractured heart, and lilith removes her eyes from the paper she’d been signing. the press of guilt is nearly suffocating. because that _is_ edalyn, tall and slender as in their youth, hair covered by a cloak about four sizes too small. but what remains exposed is stark silver, shot through with blinding white, and it is all she can do to fight down the innate urge to run.

“edalyn?”

her sister freezes, stiffens, and turns around with eyes white-rimmed. she cannot tell if it is panic, embarrassment, or an odd mixture of the two. it hurts. badly. but lilith cannot dwell on that ~~there are too many eyes~~ in this place. instead, she finishes the autograph she had been creating with a flourish.

“it’s been so long since i’ve seen you last,” lilith calls, voice calm.

internally, she screams. she cries. she apologizes for a thousand different things and nothing all at once.

externally, her words drip sarcasm, sardonic and cruel. it is a defense mechanism. they cannot hurt you if you hurt them first.

“what in the world are you wearing? you look like some sort of trash collector. . . . oh, wait, you _are_.”

there is a flash of hurt in edalyn’s eyes, bright amber gold, and lilith wants to stuff the words back down her throat. but the hurt soothes over, replaced by familiar, wicked mischief as edalyn grins. her gold fang is over-large for her mouth, shining in the harsh lights of the covention center. but what makes lilith’s stomach knot on itself is how _easily_ her baby sister falls into their old routine.

edalyn is the star of the show. . .

“oh, lily! i just had to see the leader of the emperor’s coven in action.” edalyn drops to the children’s level – a small group had followed her over, intrigued – and pretends to whisper. “you know when we were girls, lily was so excited to see the emperor’s coven, she _peed_ a little.”

. . . and lilith is the butt of the joke.

her cheeks flush vermillion, and for a moment, a wave of black, seething hatred creeps up lilith’s throat. she wants to scream. she wants to run. she wants to strike her sister again and again and again because _how dare she_?! the children giggle. edalyn’s expression is smug. it’s always been so damned _smug_. but then she catches sight of the lines pressed into edalyn’s face, the exhaustion that shadowed her eyes and her movements. she looks tired. she looks _old_.

and it’s all her fault.

self-loathing snuffs out the hatred.

cheeks still burning, lilith gently ushers the children away, smiling in apology as she does so. they go without fuss, calling out good-byes and thank-yous as they scatter. once they are out of earshot, lilith whirls on her wayward sister.

“ _you_ shouldn’t be here, edalyn. what in the _titan’s_ name are you thinking?! have you any idea the number of warrants out for your arrest?!” exasperation and fear grip her heart in equal measure. “why would you do something this foolish?”

a sudden thought occurs, hope beyond hope, and lilith reaches out to grasp her baby-sister’s hands with trembling fingers. “unless you’re here to join the emperor’s coven?!”

edalyn blinks for a moment. the joy turns to ash in lilith’s mouth – her sister has dissolved into snorting laughter. “oh, yeah, that’ll be the day!! and here i thought you didn’t have a sense of humor!”

she doesn’t. she can’t. there is no time for jokes or laughter when there is a curse that needs curing, a coven that needs running ~~a love that’s killing her with sweet dreams and smiles~~ , an apprentice that needs teaching. the jealousy, the disappointment, the sheer, overwhelming need to show edalyn that she is _more_ _than_ is too much to bear. and so lilith falls back onto old habits. the blanket of sarcasm and superiority feels soothing.

“you think being covenless makes you _so_ much smarter than everyone else,” lilith growls, eyes narrowed. “but while you run from the law like a _degenerate_ , i’m mentoring the next generation of powerful witches into the world.”

well.

she tutors one.

amity is small and serious, but there is so much _potential_ in the tiny, honey-eyed child that lilith could sing. she’s precious, precocious, a bright spot in a desolate existence that continues to eat her from the inside out. sometimes amity reminds her desperately of alador ~~he kisses her over a curriculum that’s garbage~~ in her thirst for knowledge, in the excitement she radiates over learning something new ~~he holds her close and hisses “i don’t care!” and her heart _stops_~~. she’s a wonderful little girl, all of twelve and ready to take on the world. she _adores her_. it’s nice to be able to hold that over her sister.

edalyn’s face shifts into a scowl, and lilith’s stomach jolts at the number of wrinkles her baby sister has acquired. “i have a student! and i bet she could wipe the _floor_ with any of your prissy blue-bloods!!”

pride is a terrible thing, lilith has come to realize. it prevents her from admitting her weaknesses. it prevents her from telling alador how much he _hurts_ her. it prevents her from telling edalyn the truth about her curse. and it prevents her from doing the reasonable thing and scoffing at edalyn’s suggestion. her _challenge_.

“is that a challenge?” she near-hisses.

it takes every ounce of her self-control not to wrench the finger edalyn jabs into her chest. “oh, it’s a _promise_.”

lilith _does_ lose what little self-control she possesses when a young girl – amity’s age, it seems, small and wiry but with a round baby-face – comes careening between them. it’s a human. her rounded ears are tiny, and there isn’t a drop of magick in her blood. it’s odd, a void between them, and lilith blinks in shock both at the sudden arrival and the absolute _nothingness_ that greets her magick’s touch.

“eda! eda, eda, eda!!! you gotta help me! i accidentally challenged amity to a witches’ duel and i think she’s gonna kill me _all the way dead!!!_ ”

the little one sinks to her knees between them, panic stark in her dark eyes. it’s comical, very edalyn-esque in the dramatics. she almost starts laughing.

then the child’s words register.

“wait, girl, did you say _amity_? as in amity _blight_?!” lilith’s voice is sharper than she meant it to be, and she regrets it as the poor girl flinches away.

“yessss??” tentative, afraid, like she doesn’t know whether it’s a bad thing to be truthful.

panic boils behind her sternum. lilith draws in a sharp breath. her fingers are trembling, clenched into fists, and she ignores the stark response to bolt.

her jaw clenches, but she manages to growl out, “which direction did she go?”

it’s sad how terrified she makes this poor human child. but lilith doesn’t have the strength to care. instead, she stalks in the direction the girl points, grateful for titles as an ocean of people part before her march. her eyes scan, searching, watching, until a head of mint-green hair comes into view. amity is standing before a baker’s coven member, speaking with one of her classmates as she idly munches on a cupcake. she looks so nonchalant.

lilith’s blood _boils_.

“amity. aurora. _blight_ ,” she hisses.

the child freezes, stiffens, and slowly turns to face her with horror-stricken eyes. it doesn’t soothe the fear roiling in her gut, nor the anger hissing through her veins. lilith’s hand clenches so tightly around her staff the wood creaks. her fingers are shaking.

“what in the _titan’s name_ were you thinking, little miss?!”

witchlings scatter like leaves in a gale. grown witches attempt to look busy to hide their ashen faces and sweaty palms. and amity is left alone to face her mentor’s ire. it is ironic and horrible, and lilith regrets her tone immediately as the little one blanches under her stare. she’s so _tiny_. so _fragile_. she still remembers the day she met her, and lilith’s heart aches at how much she looks like alador in the moment.

her features may be odalia’s, but their expressions are all her father’s.

“she’s just a human, ms. clawthorne,” amity squeaks. “i’m not going to get hurt, honest!”

“amity blight, you know _very well_ that you aren’t to be accepting invitations to witch’s duels _regardless_ of whether or not your opponent is a human!” lilith can’t get the image of amity, frightened and bruised and bleeding, out of her head; it’s nauseating. “come with me. you’re going to retract your acceptance immediately.”

amity trembles, frightened, but then does something unexpected. she firms her jaw, squares her shoulders, and squeaks out, “i can’t do that, ms. clawthorne.”

the tension in her spine is going to snap it. anxiety is throwing static behind her eyes, images that flash one after the other until she must swallow down bile. amity is bleeding, no amity is crying, no amity is lying in a broken heap thanks to accepting an invitation from a _human_ to duel in magick and she _can’t. . ._

lilith freezes. “and why exactly is that, amity?”

twelve years old and ready to take on the world. amity looks her dead in the eye and says, “we made the everlasting oath. i’m a blight – i can’t just. . . forfeit against a human.”

~~blight blight blight a curse a plague and lilith is _so fucking sick_ of hearing that damned name because everyone throws it about as though it is a perfect explanation for toxicity and tears and little girls who cannot be seen to fail without breaking into panicked tears and she wants to scream and she wants to cry and she wants to go back to that night in the study with alador and kiss him hard and bury her face in his neck and say, “to hell with odalia” and take her love _back_ and – ~~

slowly, shakily, lilith inhales. she holds the breath for four. out for four. wait for eight. repeat. when she feels as though she can speak without devolving into shrieks, she turns back to amity. the poor little ~~idiot~~ dear is trembling head to foot, unshed tears in her big honey-gold eyes. but her shoulders are squared. her chin is held high. she does not quail under the weight of her mentor’s stare.

she’d be almost proud if this weren’t so _asinine_.

“amity, i want you to listen to me very carefully,” lilith takes care to measure the tone of her words. “this is no joke. a witch’s duel is a sacred thing, and i cannot help you. not even if something serious were to happen. do you understand that? you could _die_ , and i am bound by the rules not to interfere.”

this is a _child_. she still has baby-fat on her cheeks, eyes big and round like her father’s were at that age. lilith remembers the first time she’d been injured in one of their training sessions, the way she’d valiantly found down tears even as she clung to lilith’s hand as they had reset a bone in her forearm. it had been terrifying, watching this child she adored so much in pain.

she doesn’t think she can stomach watching a duel. or worse.

“i understand. but i can _do this_! ms. clawthorne, let me do this!”

this is a _child_.

but lilith is not her mother. lilith is her mentor. and she does not have the authority to make the ~~idiotic _foolish_~~ determined little girl do anything.

“fine. when is this cursed duel meant to take place?”

amity’s shoulders sag with relief, and she looks up at her sheepishly. “in the theater. . . in an hour?”

. . . this child is trying to kill her. truly, this is poetic justice for her own cursed existence. lilith sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “we’d best prepare, then, hadn’t we?”

they spend the next fifty or so minutes running through drills, correcting a few problem areas here and there with amity’s summoning techniques. she is proficient, yes, but still learning. powerful but crude. alador had not lied when saying amity is brilliant, but she is also a terrible perfectionist. it is not acceptable until it is _flawless_ , and that simply isn’t conducive to a dueling scenario. she cannot win like this. it isn’t enough.

their time runs out.

lilith finds herself standing before a crowd once again, eyes boring into her soul, faces judging every move. anxiety makes her fingers shake. desperation forces her hand. no one sees the power-glyph she presses to the back of little amity’s neck as she guides her forward. and no one hears the terror that shrieks in time with her heart when she addresses them.

“the emperor’s coven is proud to present an impromptu demonstration of the sort of witch we seek each year,” she calls, tone even and steady. “may i present amity blight.”

amity steps into the ring with a confident smirk. the expression is so reminiscent of odalia it makes lilith nauseous.

she doesn’t dwell.

“versus. . . . some human girl.”

lilith feels guilty. she hadn’t even bothered to learn the poor child’s name. edalyn presents her student with an enthusiastic gesture, grin wide and mega-bright in her face. it makes lilith’s heart ache. the absolute _terror_ in the poor human child’s expression makes it that much worse.

the duel begins.

anxiety knots her stomach and claws at her skin. it is obvious amity has the upper hand throughout. the abomination she summons is impressive, even for a child aided by a power glyph, and the human child sprints around the ring to avoid being crushed. all seems to be going well. it looks to be headed toward a draw.

then the human makes a gesture.

then amity’s abomination ignites, the heat washing over her in a rush of sulfur.

it groans, stumbling backwards, and amity squeaks in surprise. lilith feels her heart stall, leaping into her mouth. her hands tremble. her jaw clenches. there is sweat beading along her spine. amity burning, amity bruised, amity crying for her as the world explodes around them.

no – that isn’t real.

the gust of wind that blows them back several steps seems to come out of nowhere, suspicious by the shock that seems to paint itself across the human child’s features. she looks at her hands, then at amity, and back again. amity gets back to her feet, face flushed tomato red ~~she gets that from alador because he used to blush so _hard_ when she would sneak up hug him from behind, snake her arms about his waist and squeeze him tight ~~and snarls, “abomination, seize!” in a voice like a trod-upon cat.

they’re headed towards a mound in the theatre floor. the human looks ready to cry, to bolt. instead she remains frozen, a peryton caught in a spotlight.

edalyn’s face suddenly contorts, eyes bugged, and she shouts, “oh shit, kid, _wait!_ ”

time is a funny thing.

sometimes, an instant feels like a lifetime.

lilith does not know how she knows. but she _knows_ the instant amity’s foot descends onto the seeming innocence of that mound. magick screams through her veins, warning sirens blaring against the confines of her skull, and she _moves_. faster than she has ever moved. the abomination is caught in a welter of over-sharpened spikes that erupt from the earth. amity’s eyes widen with all the speed of frozen molasses. somewhere, someone is screaming.

is it her?

she can’t tell.

all lilith understands is _amity, amity, amity get amity save amity protect protect protect_ and suddenly she is standing in the middle of the ring, arms wrapped tight about the trembling girl pressed into her. her chest heaves. her mind races. something smells metallic. iron and copper, sucking on a greasy snail.

against her throat, amity lets out a heavy exhale.

panick. fear. lilith frantically looks over the tiny girl, smooths back her hair and catalogues the sweat on her brow and the bruise on her cheek and the. . . blood. there is blood. a gash on her lower leg. not too deep. not life-threatening. painful, blood blood blood – the titan got a taste, oh _gods_ , it got a taste of a precious girl and now it will want _more_ and. . .

“eda, what just happened?!”

the voice is high-pitched and frightened. the human girl. it sounds far away – lilith is too busy nuzzling amity’s temple, whining and chirping to try and get a reaction. a cry, a whimper, a scream, _anything_.

“i just kinda. . . gave ya a bit of help, kid. shit, forgot about that one, though. didn’t mean for ‘em t’ be so. . . pointy. but hot _damn_ , i didn’t expect prissy sissy to _cheat_ and pull baby-blight out of the fire! guess you win either way, kid!”

edalyn. help. win. _pointy?_

it clicks.

lilith _snarls_ , fangs bore as she hunches around amity’s tiny frame. her vision tunnels. her fingers shake. the air smells like copper. 

she’s going to _kill_ edalyn.

“edalyn clawthorne, you’d better have _damned_ good explanation for this!”

edalyn blinks at her in shock. the little human squeaks and hides behind her sister.

“geez, lily, it ain’t a big deal. baby blight got a scratch, that’s all. ‘sides, you broke the rules too. mentors aren’t supposed to interfere, remember?” edalyn’s tone borders on smug, uncomprehending of what she _almost did_.

isn’t a big deal. just a scratch. broke the rules. 

lilith snaps.

a shriek of rage escapes, feral, and she lashes out with one hand. edalyn flies into the theatre wall, propelled by a rush of magickal fire, stone crumbling beneath the force. the little human girl cries out in shock, worry, but lilith does not wait to watch the fallout. instead, she scoops amity into her arms and does what she has wanted to from the moment she arrived.

she _runs_.

there is no direction, no meaning, nothing but a blur of voices and smells and colors and the feel of amity huddled tight against her chest. she runs, snapping and snarling as she tries to find safe. safety, warmth, darkness _anything_. something touches her shoulder. she whirls, all teeth, and stops cold.

amber eyes. honey-gold eyes. familiar, beautiful, _safe_. lilith takes a deep breath and the smell of petrichor and pine washes over her. her arms tremble. amity is crying against her neck. warmth soaking into the hip of her dress.

blood. injured. _amity_. edalyn injured amity.

someone is speaking. low, deep, a rumble like a waterfall. words don’t mean anything. it’s nothing. nothing at all. but. . .

a hand against her cheek. large fingers, callouses, gently pushing her hair behind her ear. tears burn her eyes. petrichor and pine and earth and abomination clay. she gasps for air. pushes into the touch. more words. waterfall over rocks. meaningless but beautiful. this is safe. this person is safe.

the safeperson leads her to another room. quieter. alone. they sit her on a cushioned something and strokes hands over her face, her hair, rubs fingers along the shell of her ear and smooths a palm down her back. lilith cries. presses into the touch. they’re still talking. thunder in the clouds. waves against a cliff.

safeperson has a name. she needs to remember.

a whimper against her throat. lilith holds tighter, whining in distress. she nuzzles, scents. blood. scared. baby. poor baby. _her baby_.

“lilith? lilith, darling, you need to breathe. can you breathe for me? come on, my little raven, you can do it.”

words – she knows those. lilith sucks in a gulp of air. then another. slowly, the world sharpens into focus again.

amity is crying bitterly against her collarbone, muttering, “i’m sorry, i’m _sorry_ ” in rapid succession like a prayer. like a mantra. she strokes a trembling hand over the sweet ~~stupid~~ girl’s hair and nuzzles the top of her head. presses a kiss to the mint-green locks that look too much like odalia for comfort. there’s a bandage on her leg. it isn’t bleeding.

when did that happen?

a palm meets her cheek, turns her face, and lilith’s eyes water again. alador stares back in naked fear, concern written in the tense line of his shoulders and set of his jaw.

“are you back with me?” he rasps.

tears are a nuisance. they burn and ruin her eyeliner, run mascara over her cheeks in ink-rivers. alador slumps in relief regardless, and he _smiles_ , the one with too many teeth. he looks at her like she’s the most beautiful thing in the world.

“oh, thank titan!” he sighs. “you scared the _life_ out of me, darling. what happened?!”

it’s too much.

she loves him, and he looks at her like _that_ , and amity is hurt, and it’s all _too much_.

lilith bursts into tears. she tells him everything. alador listens, says nothing. when she is finished, he draws a quick spell-circle with one fingertip. the door’s lock slides into place with a _click!_

then he draws both her and amity against his chest, burrowing down against the cushions of the couch they have been sitting on. a hand strokes over her hair. amity has cried herself out, sleeping fitfully smushed between them. lilith chokes on a sob. then another. alador presses a hard, warm kiss to her forehead.

“i think we all need a nap. coventions are _terrible_. we’ll talk more afterwards, hmm?”

he is warm. and broad. and strong. and _safe_. alador continues to stroke a hand through her hair, purring low in his chest as she cries. she can hear his heartbeat, deep and slow. _ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum_. a war-drum. a lullaby. lilith buries her face in the crook of his neck, clings to amity’s tiny body. she screws her eyes shut.

another kiss against her hairline.

a low murmur. “sleep, my love. just for now. i’ve got you.”

she can pretend like this.

she can pretend they are in their hammock, the sun slowly sinking beneath the trees. that they are married, that they are happy. that the tiny, fragile child tucked so snug to her heart is theirs. that she will wake up to his smile, to his laughter, to the sound of him puttering about in the kitchen making omelets so packed with cheese they threaten murder and a cup of tea just how she likes it.

another breath.

petrichor. pine. abomination clay. salt.

another kiss on the forehead. then the temple. his arm curls tight about her waist.

she’s exhausted.

lilith falls asleep against a man she loves.

for once, she does not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . there is no excuse. Just violent bouts of depression and an author drowning in pharmacotherapy homework while chugging Mtn. Dew like her life depends upon it. Seriously. I am posting this at twenty minutes past midnight and have three assignments to do tomorrow. 
> 
> I wish not to be judged for my procrastination skills.
> 
> In all seriousness, thank you all so much for making it through this far. Like, holy shit this chapter is almost 9k in length and I??? have never written a chapter so long before??? And you know how I said this chapter was going to be lighter? I lied. Depression and anxiety snuck up behind me and said, "cool, cool I see what you want to do. But, like. . . make it _sadder _" and then bitch-slapped me in the face.__
> 
> __This was the result._ _
> 
> __. . . I'm so sorry. I'm proud of the chapter. I think it's one of the better-written ones I've managed to form. But still._ _
> 
> __Again, thank you so much for reading this, and I hope to see you in the next one! Feel free to leave a comment, as they are my lifeblood (besides Mtn. Dew)._ _

**Author's Note:**

> . . . I have no regrets. 
> 
> You can't make me.
> 
> In all seriousness, I've wanted to work off of this idea for a while now and had no idea how to proceed. However, after reading FunnyFany and Sora_U's brilliant fanfictions using RavenBlight (™ of FunnyFanny) as a pairing, I felt like I had more of a grasp on the characters and what exactly I wanted to do with this idea. Seriously, go check them out, they're great. 
> 
> Alador is now my favorite Bastard Man™ thanks to them, and I needed a Dumb Bastard to go in line with Lilith's Dumb Bitch, and I'm looking forward to highlighting that as we move forward. 
> 
> As you can see, my brain vomited a LOT of ideas. . . . a LOT of them. So if you're here, pony up, 'cause it's gonna be a long haul, fuckers, and there's more where this came from. I'm also not entirely sure I like the style of this? Like, I wanted to experiment with an all lower-case kind of stream-of-consciousness aesthetic but I'm not entirely sure I captured that well here. Let me know what you think! I'll probably change that moving forward, honestly. 
> 
> This was. . . this was supposed to be a one-shot. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A ONE-SHOT, GUYS, I HAVE OTHER STORIES AND FINALS COMING UP WHY DO i Do tHiS tO mYsELf?!!!!
> 
> But all-in-all, this was really fun to write, and I hope that you all enjoyed! Thank you so much for reading, it truly means a lot, and I hope to see you in the next one!


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